


The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like

by InnerSpectrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, Drag, Musicals, Pining, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Mycroft Holmes deduces there’s unrest brewing on the world board, but does not yet know the name of this new player in The Game starting to wreak havoc. In the guise of investigating a lead he takes a rare night off to rest his brain because sometimes even he needs to step away. Curiosity leads him to at a drag queen lounge where he sees, Roxie, a drag diva. There is something about the enigmatic queen keeps Mycroft coming back even as acknowledges the feelings it stirs up for a certain silver-haired detective inspector. Meanwhile this mysterious player grows into more and more of a threat. What happens once Mycroft learns the truth about the connection between this new player and the drag queen? And what will it mean for the burgeoning relationship between him and Gregory Lestrade?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 167
Kudos: 38
Collections: The Queen's Hidden Lounge





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> Sebastian Moran is totally utterly NOT hung up on his boss, Jim Moriarty... But he just might be falling for a drag performer named Roxie. 
> 
> There will be some crossover between them, but they are two different stories, with different takes. Each to be read independently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen a little before chapter 1 in Fabricdragon's timeline.

Mycroft Holmes had had a week, several of them. There were hints of a new player in the game. Nothing overtly horrendous yet, no concrete names yet, but all the troublesome markers were there. It was an unsolved puzzle in the making, a big one. One Mycroft instinctively knew was going to wreak havoc if not put in check. He was exhausted, his team was exhausted. They were finding loose threads with burned ends, nothing attached that might shake a clue loose. He was not happy about it and had just shy of snarled as he and Anthea left the office for the night.

The sedan had pulled away from dropping Anthea off when Mycroft decided he had enough for the night.

_I need a diversion. Take a break, start fresh in the morning._

››TEXT›› 1907: Change of plans. I will be off visiting with Les for a few hours, I want to check something privately. – MH

››TEXT›› 1909: Such a bore. I don’t know how you stand him for more than six minutes, let alone for hours, sir. – A

››TEXT›› 2003: Six hours is about all I can stand of him myself. – MH

The Queen’s Hidden Lounge became an accidental part of his life when he had to have a member of his team rescued from jail while protecting an asset who started a brawl in the alley a few doors down from the dive club. As he reviewed the videos, he caught the fleeting appearance of the naked back a woman in a beautiful halter dress in the background as she slipped by a door into the lounge.

Mycroft knew the neighborhood. It was barely a five second glimpse of her back and the swing of slender hips, yet she stood out. She had a quality much too good for such a locale. It was rare Mycroft gave into idle curiosity, but weeks after he first saw the video, thoughts of that beautiful spine continued to haunt him.

He did something done only a few times a year – he turned off his chip and drove himself to the lounge.

_Every man has his secrets._

Mycroft mentally warred with himself the entire drive there.

_You need to do this. Take a night off._

_No, you really do not._

_You need to take some time and look over the data again. Find the connecting threads._

Mycroft found himself standing at the dilapidated looking door to the venue.

 _Do not lie to yourself, it’s not the venue that has you intrigued, and Anthea would have you sectioned if she knew where_ Les _was headed. Go home._

In the future, Mycroft is going to recall three times involving this where he did not listen to his initial inclinations and he will never know if Fate, Karma and the Universe got together and cursed or blessed him for it – this was the first:

“Welcome to the Queen’s Hidden Lounge,” a male dressed as Jessica Rabbit greeted him.

_This may be a drag venue, but you could at least remove that 10 o’clock shadow if you’re going to dress like that._

He was soon seated in one of the booths on the outer peripheral of the lounge and sipped on what they considered their better scotch.

_Mycroft Holmes what the hell are you doing here? You’re not here as Mycroft Holmes. Satisfy your curiosity and get out._

Plan and disguise in place, he settled into his seat and nursed the drink.

The Queen’s Hidden Lounge was a step above dive bar, but not a tourist trap. This was a place for locals that was never going to be on anyone’s top ten of anything.

_Not even top twenty. It certainly is a place Les would enjoy._

Still, it had a certain bohemian _something_. Mycroft noted a hierarchy of sorts among the staff. All the food servers and busboys wore dungaree skirts, white t-shirts and trainers. While it was clearly a uniform some went with a more feminine aesthetic in it, some did not bother. The cocktail waitresses were all dressed in some version of a little black dress. Mycroft recognized one was a Wednesday Addams, another was a Holly Golightly, they all wore some form of heel and had a better make-up job yet, they were subpar to those onstage. The entertainment knew they were the draw and lived up to it with their exaggerated femininity, but it was just that – exaggerated. Mostly parodies of whatever celebrity they impersonated or unique characters with ridiculous nom de plumes such Anita Sharpe Mann, or Ida Warner Knowe.

None matched the physical stature of that smooth back glimpsed in the video.

Over an hour of mediocre, at best, talent Mycroft was afraid that he would combust from utter boredom. He wrenched his mind away from the work he was trying to get away from.

_I know I am in the correct venue, perhaps this is not her night be here and I can’t ask anyone. I do not want any hint of my interest for this place to get out._

He had settled his bill and had stood about to leave when he heard a familiar intro.

_Mummy I don’t know whether to curse or kiss you and your damned love of musicals._

“Damn Yankees” was one of her favorites, he would recognize the opening strains of any number in it no matter who performed it and this was one of the show’s most infamous. Before he could decide whether to stay for the number or leave, a slender figure enshrouded in form fitted ruffled black skirt and black corseted top, with an oversized red floral hat that half hid her face, stepped onto the stage.

No, stepped was not the right word. One stilettoed heeled foot clicked the floor as it crossed in front of the other, each step enhancing the swaying hips as she prowled onto stage. From his seat in the booth, Mycroft couldn’t tell the color, just that they were dark and dangerous and were aware of the attraction they drew. Red rouged lips smirked, then parted in a slight moue begin to lip sync.

Her blond wig, a contrast to the expected fiery red of the character, mattered not as she let those in the audience know that _Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets_.

He quickly sat back down.

He was looking at the front of her, but he knew.

_It’s her!_

Mycroft knew the singing was a cover by Sarah Vaughn, but he and his brother had suffered through multiple viewing of the movie as children, he knew a lot of the dance moves were a tribute to the movie itself.

His brain understood there was a man under it all. In fact, Roxie did not really hide it. While the make-up was beautiful, the shoulders and arms were well defined in a way not generally associated with femininity and the black corset worn did not bother with the illusion of breasts. Yet it could not be denied, with sheer chutzpah and charisma, she made it _work_.

_My God!_

Roxie had sinuous moves that would have made Bob Fosse proud and Gwen Verdon envious. From the removal of the lace gloves, through the skirt, to the illusion lace capris revealing a solid figure in a corset, knickers, fishnet stockings and killer heels - the strip tease was Art.

_What an impressive tuck job!_

Mycroft was treated to a much longer view of the back that first caught his attention. Her arse was near pendulous in its grace while she tossed the repeated two-word command that ended the number over her shoulder as she strolled off the stage. Mycroft could tell there was hardly a man in the room whose blood had not traveled due south; his included.

_“Give in” indeed!_

It was several minutes before he could gather his wits and leave, unsure of what he witnessed that left him breathless.

There was nothing he could do about the bulge that made the jeans he wore quite uncomfortable during the drive home as he berated himself.

_She’s just a drag queen! What is wrong with you?_

The shaggy dirty blond wig and yellow tinted glasses were the first things he removed once in the safety of his car.

Les McQueen was one of Mycroft’s several disguises when he wanted or needed to be off the grid for a time. This one was based on a handsy lout of a man Anthea had encountered on a mission. While the name was made up, she was both annoyed and amused the first time she saw her boss’ emulation of the man especially his boorish behavior. It was agreed he would always let her know when he went offline and when he returned. They had agreed on a six-hour window that night, if he had not made contact within the next hour she would hit the panic button.

››TEXT›› 2345: Les McQueen sends his love. – MH

››TEXT›› 2349: Les can, with all due respect, sir - suck it. – A

››TEXT›› 2351: McQueen will be by in the morning. – MH

››TEXT›› 2359: I most certainly hope not. – A

The scent of the lounge was still on him, but that was not why he quickly stripped off the leather blazer, black button down, white tie and the much too snug in the crotch jeans.

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his indifference to the populace of the world he considered goldfish. He was called _Iceman_ for a reason. He most certainly was not a man given to a lack of self-control of his mind or lack of restraint of his body. It said something about the power of Roxie’s allure as he palmed himself through his pants on the way to the shower.

Still, one prevailing thought surfaced as visions of silky blond hair, flashing dark eyes, pouty red lips and a corseted back where he could all but see the spine bent over before him as he sprayed his shower wall with more than soap and water:

 _I MUST see her again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may not get the reference Les McQueen is a characters Mark Gatiss portrayed with The League of Gentleman. You can get a gander of Mycroft in _disguise_ as Les [ HERE ](https://raivenne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/gatiss-as-les-mcqueen-01-e1589502482950.png)
> 
> Listen to the incomparable Sarah Vaughn singing: "[Whatever Lola Wants](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvcaSBN82ns)"


	2. Overture and Oversights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mycroft gets deeper into his obsession with the charms of the drag queen Roxie, he gets an accidental assist from an unlikely source as he tries to learn the identity of this new player who is cutting a little to close to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events of this chapter happen between Chapters 1 & 2 in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“According to the report from M and the double-o involved, the informant’s words were _Il suo nome è morte_.” Lord Francis, codename: Static spoke, “There were some blips and pauses in the transmission, but the woman was in pain. She died after speaking those words. Whomever these people are, those who get close enough to know something are terrified. They rumor… They whisper...”

“And do any of these _rumors_ , these _whispers_ have a name?” Mycroft, codename: Antarctica sat forward intently.

Static slowly shook his head.

“Same from my people as well. Just _morti_ whispers of the name death.” Marcus Isles, codename: Banner added.

“That is all they are Antarctica, deep underground whispers,” Sir Edwin, codename: Porlock tried to defend his slowly failing operation, “The mission can still …”

“Your operation in Eastern Europe may be seriously compromised, Porlock. Absolutely not.” Lady Elizabeth, codename: Love, looked at Sir Edwin incredulously.

“That will be an almost two-year engagement wasted!” The man complained bitterly.

“Your team was focused on Warsaw. Those connections were quietly severed right out from under their noses and are now in control by idiot despots who would misspell half of the territories they allegedly run. That cockup alone affected Honor’s efforts in Yerevan, which exposed an agent and got him killed. It is likely already wasted. Salvage what you can and hold.”

“But Antarctica…!”

“But. Nothing.” Antarctica enunciated the end of each word with finality. “ _Mission: Ugly Duckling_ 1 is on hold until further notice. Do not try me.”

“How can we, _WE_ , of all people, still be so in the dark by this?” Lord Nicholas Dodson, codename: Honor pounded a fist on the conference table in frustration. It was his agent that was murdered. “Because whomever they are, they are good. Too damned good.”

A bullet hole had dotted the word _spion_ in the agent’s forehead _._ The Danish word for “spy” was one of several carved onto the man’s body in different languages. The words were carved post-mortem, none of the words were from the country in which he had been last assigned, nor from the continent in which his body was found.

Mycroft was as impressed as he was vexed by the kill.

“My point exactly, Honor. There are people who could not spell the first person singular correctly a year ago who suddenly have the intellectual fortitude to come into power via weapons and drug trafficking. That circus troupe from China is especially worrisome. Gen. Shan has been a name we’ve tracked in China for a while and she suddenly turns up dead from a professional hit in our own yard. Yet none here knows how she, let alone others of the Black Lotus arrived here? And we only stumbled across them because of my brother’s incidental involvement. There are very few people with the kind of intelligence and means to smuggle that many criminals across borders unchecked. Most of whom are in this room.”

Antarctica let his words hang in the deafening silence as all eyes shifted around to the others at the implications.

“You’re saying we either have a leak, one hell of a new player in the game...” Love purposely looked around at the five others gathered at the table, including Mycroft, “…or a betrayer.”

“Or all of the above.” Static intoned, “Eastern Europe will be published in _The Daily Mirror_ at this pace.2”

Banner looked to Mycroft, “What are we dealing with here?”

“Something new.” Antarctica stood and gathered his papers, effectively ending the briefing.

“I do sincerely suggest that the whispers and rumors outside of this room start to have names and faces that will be silenced...” where Love had intentionally looked in everyone’s face, Antarctica purposely looked down at the documents in his hands, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye and imply accusations he has yet to substantiate as he walked to the door. He used his right eye for the retinal scan and keyed in a code that released the baffles and disengaged the lock in the room.

With his back to the room he paused at the open door a moment before he stepped out.

“…before it gets to the point some of the names and faces inside this room are.”

\----

Mycroft was conversing with Greg Lestrade in front of Baker Street when his private phone buzzed.

››TEXT›› 2201: I know it’s late, but she just walked in the door. – Tony _._

After that first night he had returned to the Queen’s Hidden Lounge for three weekends straight before he learned Roxie was a Diva.

Yes, that is Diva with a Capital D, thank you.

Roxie appeared only when Roxie wanted to appear and IF the lounge was lucky, she gave them a twenty-four-hour warning. Mostly she would simply show up at the stage door on a random evening and take over the larger dressing room as her own. That was their only notice. Mycroft had overheard when another patron asked Anthony, the stage manager, about her schedule. Naturally, the opportunist hinted that notice of her appearances could be obtained, _for a price_. Mycroft had mentally scoffed at joining the queue of the other Roxie devotees and refused.

That night Roxie came out in thigh high boots, kickers and a corset; all in bright red patent leather. She, picked-up what at first appeared to be a random lace decorating the stage curtain until Roxie slid it up her arm and Mycroft realized it was a sleeve. Roxie performed a reverse tease, putting on clothes piece by piece, instead of removing clothes. Once dressed it looked like she wore a demur floor length red lace gown. It was made alluring by her moves and all knowing of the red patent leather barely seen underneath, all of it lip synced to Eartha Kitt’s rendition of “My Heart Belongs To Daddy.”

The next morning Mycroft woke up from a very vivid dream with a need that demanded satisfaction. Something that had not happened to him since before Oxford at sixteen.

Worse it seemed Karma, Fate and Universe had a third of London in some form of bright red fashion that day. Even Lady Smallwood was in a rare showy mood and wore a bright red scarf as ascot to her suit. It was a constant reminder of Roxie for most of the day. The next evening cash mysteriously appeared in the stage manager’s trouser pocket in an envelope with a typed number and request for notice Roxie’s appearances.

Mycroft swore he would go to his grave before he would admit to the monthly incentive of one of Mycroft’s alter egos that paid for the stage manager’s flat outright. However, it made that alter ego the person Anthony contacted first whenever Roxie appeared. It has been a lovely arrangement for several months now; Mycroft could not always make it, Crown and Country first after all, but he attended often enough and always in disguises. Roxie fans that were willing to pay came and went, Anthony had no idea which of the several numbers he had on retainer was the main benefactor who single-handedly paid for his flat and Mycroft intended to keep it that way. He knew the chances of being seen here by someone who knew him on sight were next to nil, still even disguised he usually chose to sit in a dark booth offside and away from the stage.

It is where the surveyor, Mr. Wynt, sat as he sipped the still subpar drink he’ll nurse just for show before he switched to tea.

He idly pondered the reason a solitary bowler hat with a sign that warned not to touch was on a reserved table in front of him when the lounge’s MC stepped onto the stage in a tuxedo he had not worn earlier. He set three chairs on the stage in specific places before he walked to the microphone.

Mycroft nodded when the MC began a well-known intro. Well know to the lovers of the classic movie or constantly exposed to it growing up. It all came together when a lithe Roxie appeared from the back of the audience dressed in a perfect imitation of Liza’s Sally Bowles imitating the Master of Ceremonies. She picked up the bowler hat along the way as she pretended to rush to the stage. It was the first time Mycroft had seen her in a hair color other than blonde.

_Understandable. To portray that role in a lighter color seems almost wrong, the look so intrinsically attached to the character because of Liza._

And just like the movie, Roxie made it to the stage just as the MC finished the introduction. 

"…Une internationale sensation: Fräulein Roxie!”

If anyone had thought the other two chairs meant that she was being joined on stage, they were sorely mistaken.

_Roxie needs no one else._

Every single hand movement, leg drop, head turn, hip swing between the three chairs was thrilling as she incorporated much of Fosse’s classic moves with a few twists of her own.

Roxie stepped up onto the chair.

“…But I do...what I can…”

She placed one foot on the seat, the other on top of the back of the chair.

“…Inch by inch… step by step…mile by mile…”

She slid her hands up her thighs over her crotch and past her chest as she leaned the chair forward precariously onto its hind legs.

“...Man by man…”

Every eye was on her as she slowly snapped her fingers behind her, her back beautifully arched in such a way that seemed to push her pelvis even more forward, her body taunt yet fluid as she licentiously pulsed her hips in time to the music.

“…Bye bye mein lieber herr. Farewell mein lieber herr. It was a fine affair…”

She rocked back and dropped to the floor; the chair between her straddled legs as she landed perfectly on the down beat.

“…But now it’s over…”

Cheers and whistles went up from the audience; part in appreciation of the execution and part in relief that she was down safely.

The fast-paced ending beats of the song included a tossing and catch of the bowler hat before that final collapse across the chair. Mycroft could not help admiring the parting view of the back that had first captured his attention when Roxie strutted from the stage after her bow.

_I would recognize that spine almost anywhere by now._

Mr. Wynt signaled for the check grateful for the moment to collect his thoughts after a Roxie performance, as he finished his now cooled tea.

Sipping the tea reminded him of his conversation with Greg Lestrade.

Several hours earlier Mycroft stepped out of Baker Street just as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stepped out of his car and locked it.  
  


> “Good evening, Detective Inspector.”
> 
> _How have I not noticed how the silver in his hair catches the light before? Canities suits him well._
> 
> “Oh! Good evening, Holmes.” Lestrade suppressed a yawn.
> 
> “Are my baby brother and his flatmate being neglectful with their paperwork, again?” Mycroft noted the folders Lestrade held.
> 
> “Nah, he’s much better about that now. Watson has proved to be his own brand of pain in the arse when he wants, but he helps keep the idiot genius in line, so I’m grateful.” The man gave a short smile. “I only want to arrest him half as much as I used to before.”
> 
> “But still want to choke him as much as I the other half of the time, I presume?”
> 
> “No.” Lestrade shook his head and finger. “None of that, now.”
> 
> “Excuse me?” Mycroft looked at the finger Lestrade waved in the negative as one would to a naughty child.
> 
> _Mummy does not do that to me anymore! Well, mostly not anymore._
> 
> “I told his nibs earlier this week that he is no longer allowed to insult you around me.” Lestrade explained, “I don’t want to hear it.”
> 
> “You defended me?” Mycroft asked incredulously, “Not that I need defending by you, but why?”
> 
> _No one defends me from Sherlock’s insults, except Mummy and sometimes Father._
> 
> “I know you can defend yourself when you’re there, but you weren’t. Your brother was on a tear and dragged your name into the conversation. I know he does not mean half the nonsense he says, but I just got tired of hearing it. You’re not as bad as he makes you out to be.” Lestrade ran a rough hand over his head and rested it on the back of his neck. He looked away as if embarrassed by the admission. “And most people say thank you at such times you know.”
> 
> “I am _hardly_ most people.” Mycroft sniffed offended at being grouped with the town and sundry he considered having the intellectual capacity of goldfish.
> 
> “Oh, don’t I bloody know it!” Lestrade rolled his eyes, but Mycroft could see the mirth behind them.
> 
> _And now I’m noticing his warm eyes. I’ve been looking at him for years, how am I just noticing him now?_
> 
> “We have not met for an update in a while. Provided other cases like the Cortez and Samuels murders and…things… on my end do not rear their heads - the usual, say Tuesday?” Mycroft looked at the man.
> 
> _And he’s exhausted. The last couple of weeks have been busy ones for him._
> 
> “Yeah sure. Mon Dieu, je suis mort– more tea.” Greg yawned between words in verification of that deduction. “Sorry.”
> 
> There was something about the break between Greg’s words as he yawned that had set Mycroft’s mind spinning, which stopped when Tony pinged.
> 
> “Christ, I know I’m tired. Mixing languages, saying tea instead of coffee.” Used to similar behavior from Sherlock, Lestrade is somewhat oblivious to Mycroft’s mumbling and yawned again as he started towards the black door of 221B. “Goodnight, Holmes.”
> 
> “It’s Mycroft you know…”
> 
> “What…?” Greg stopped, but did not fully turn.
> 
> “My first name. It is Mycroft. You can use it, when it’s just you and I, such when we’ll meet on Tuesday. Or now.”
> 
> “Oh, okay.” Gregory turned his head and tilted it back as he looked down considering his words, a slow small smile on his lips, “Quid pro quo, then _Mycroft_. Goodnight.”
> 
> “Goodnight. And _Grégoire_ …?” Mycroft waited until Gregory’s eyes were on his, “Thank you.”
> 
> “Of course, you know how to say it correct.” Gregory grinned as he turned to the door again, “Tuesday!”

Mycroft replayed the conversation in his mind.

_…Mort, le thé? No, mort – more tea. He’s dead tired, he wants more tea. He does not drink tea, unless sick._

_“More tea” “Mort le thé” “Morti”_

His mind rapidly repeats the words _tea_ and _dead_ and their homophones in different languages until what is spinning in his mind comes to an end stop.

“ _Il suo nome è morte.”_

“Oh, dear Lord!” Mycroft chastised himself.

_Damn, I should have seen that a lot sooner. Thank you Gregory for setting me on the right path._

Mycroft pulled out his work mobile as the sedan pulled out onto the London streets for home.

››TEXT›› 0005: I have an idea. – MH

››TEXT›› 0009: Always a dangerous prefix when vaguely given, sir. You’d like my overnight attention in the office, I presume. – A

››TEXT›› 0013: If you would be so kind. – MH

››TEXT›› 0015: ETA 45. Is asking for a hint verboten? – A

››TEXT›› 0019: I do believe the whispers and rumors have a name and it’s not death as in the words mort, morte or morti. – MH

››TEXT›› 0023: Sir, if you are about to say the name is a diminutive of Mortimer, I may request to have you temporarily sectioned. – A

››TEXT›› 0027: You may still want to request such for yourself when you recognize how international articulatory and auditory phonetics collide over surnames and death. – MH

Mycroft smirked in the back of the sedan when no response was immediately forthcoming from Anthea. He knew she was thinking it out as he had.

_Give her time Mycroft, her mind does not work as fast as yours or Sherlock's._

››TEXT›› 0035: I rescind the section request, sir. – A

››TEXT›› 0037: I’m waiting. – MH

››TEXT›› 0039: Shall I start a private search to see if any of the whispers come attached to a person named Moriarty? – A

Mycroft gave a curt nod of approval in the dark.

_She is my aide-de-camp for a reason._

››TEXT›› 0041: Yes. – MH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> #1 A view of Mycroft’s computer screen during S3E3 “His Last Vow” showing information for the ‘resumed’ [Ugly Duckling mission](https://raivenne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/hlv-mycroft-ugly-duckling-screen.png).  
> ^Return to Paragraph
> 
>   
> #2 Alludes to the [blurb spotted among the newspapers](https://raivenne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/hlv-janine-newspapers-3.jpg) Janine shows the hospitalized Sherlock in S3E3 “His Last Vow”.  
> ^Return to Paragraph
> 
> Roxie’s performances:  
> Eartha Kitt “My Heart Belongs To Daddy”: [https://youtu.be/70YCz93Ii7A ](https://youtu.be/70YCz93Ii7A)  
> Liza Minelli “Mein Herr” from _Caberet_ : <https://youtu.be/lxmz3RcNNBE>


	3. Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft slowly gets a step closer to things professionally as he tracks down this new player in The Game and personally as he's made an unexpected offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> Sebastian Moran is totally utterly NOT hung up on his boss, Jim Moriarty... But he just might be falling for a drag performer named Roxie. 
> 
> There will be some crossover between them, but they are two different stories, with different takes. Each to be read independently.
> 
> In the BBC "Sherlock" canon, this takes place after TGG, but before THoB.

Antarctica sat at the touch screen of his consoles and moved images around to create groupings that projected onto various screens on the walls for all to see.

The top persons of interest from various global sectors were displayed. The minor players were easily dismissed from the screen. The interconnections of intermediate power players including those of Eastern Europe, both Americas and Asia intelligence was complicated enough, but the increasing reach into the players.

“There was a contact in Shang Hai. Deep within. I have not heard from her in two weeks...” Static gave an apologetic _you know_ tilt of his head that all understood.

_That contact was dead._

One thing quickly learned: the organization gave no quarter to potential threats. If someone’s loyalty was in question, someone did not las long.

“Several of this Moriarty’s people have been identified. A few of them upper management at best, but not the elusive top layers. Enough to prove that they exist; not enough to identify them. Not enough to touch them.” Banner slid images from his personal files onto the main view accessible by all.

“Is that all?” Antarctica glanced around the table at all confirmed completion of their reports.

_They do insist on invoking my censure, then contend my actions. I have neither the time nor the patience for this._

He would not lie to himself that he did not enjoy the annoyed looks of Porlock, Stratus and Banner as he slipped past the encryptions on their personal devices. He took only the files he needed; files that they had not volunteered, but should have, and added them to the visual array.

He filled in more of the blank spaces, explained their connections. It inched them closer, but not nearly enough.

He conceded that Moriarty’s people had gone deeper underground and thus harder to pinpoint.

_Harder, but not impossible._

“This next image was captured from a security camera in a carpark outside the Bristol South Swimming Pool...”

“Is that not the pool where the Semtex vest was found?” Static interrupted.

_You know damned well it was._

“If you refer to the vest whose chemical components matched those of the arms shipment that disappeared months ago and is currently, but unsubstantiated, rumored to be in the hold of an extremist group from Karachi? Why, yes. Yes, it was.” Love tapped her pen to the table impatiently; her voice laced with snark as all knew about the pool.

Mycroft noted she purposely did not look at Banner. She did not need to; all knew the loss of the arms was on his watch and he was NOT happy about it.

Banner was not aware that only Antarctica now knew the loss was not an accident.

_I need you to twist in the wind thinking you’re still safe from me, for now, but first…_

Antarctica opened a file on his laptop, pulled out an image and stared at it a moment.

“It is confirmed. The whispers have a name: Moriarty. And now the name has a face…” Antarctica dragged and dropped the image to the uppermost spot of the org-chart on display for all to see.

The man in the picture was slender, well-dressed in a bespoke suit. His dark hair slicked back; his dark eyes seemed to bore deep into you even through the image. His small smile was decidedly wicked in his blatant stare at the camera.

_One camera. He wanted to be seen. He is taunting us. Or is it just me he taunts?_

Antarctica took pleasure as the others quickly focused their attention to the image, gleaning its importance.

“James Moriarty. I want him. If any of you find him first, bring him in alive.” He instructed as he sent the files to each members’ respective device.

“So, _you_ can kill him, Antarctica?” Porlock returned his look archly. “I know your brother and his flatmate were at the pool the night before the vest showed up.”

Several curious eyes switched from Porlock to Antarctica at the surprising news.

Mycroft internally grinned.

_Took you a month to lob that grenade, too bad it’s a dud._

Sherlock himself had contacted Mycroft directly once he realized just how dangerous a player Moriarty was in the game. It was agreed that Sherlock then contact Lestrade for the vest’s retrieval to ensure its safe removal from the pool, before someone found it when the pool opened in the morning. Mycroft knew Lestrade had no choice but to report something of that amount that to higher levels, but did not report the name of the source that called it in.

Mycroft’s team remotely checked the cameras. When informed his brother and Watson appeared on several cameras, he purposely had them reroute Lestrade’s call so someone on Sir Edwin’s team ‘overhead it.’ His team let them do the work and piggy-backed behind them. As expected, once they had Sherlock and John on several cameras at the pool, they stopped looking and reported it to their boss. That was over a month ago.

That it is why it was Mycroft’s team that found the sole image.

“They had nothing to hide and showed up on every camera they should have. Dr. Watson was the victim and my brother, as usual, was playing detective instead of calling the police straight away. You on the other hand were so busy looking at the two of them, you stopped looking at everything else.” Mycroft glanced at the man as he began to clear the files from the screen purposely leaving the photo of Moriarty for last to enlarge it. “And thus, missed the one person who hid from every camera except the one he posed for.”

“Your animosities, Edwin, are overriding your priorities, Porlock.” Honor said smugly as all gathered their items and began to disperse.

Mycroft ignored them as he cleared the screens and shut down the room’s main computer.

He waited until Sir Edwin, the first of them first to rise, had reached the door before he spoke.

He knew the group he dealt with. His cool eyes narrowed as he looked at each directly before they landed on Sir Edwin last.

“I said, _alive_.”

><><>|<><><

“Goddamn it! It was _YOU_?! Do you have ANY idea how long my team…? Months of work! _Months_! The Croatian was _ours_!” Gregory visibly chewed the inside of his cheek to restrain himself as he glared at Mycroft.

Mycroft knew were they in either man’s office instead of out at dinner, Lestrade would have been yelling. His team had indicated those in the higher levels of NSY were not happy with the decision. He had not concerned himself with the lower levels. Not that it would have changed anything in the long run.

_It had been a pleasant dinner. I had to ruin it._

Mycroft placed his fork down slowly.

It was not often, that the duties of his job directly collided with those of the Met, let alone directly with Lestrade’s office. Two minutes into listening to Gregory let off steam about bureaucracy and the case that was taken from him, Mycroft knew this was one such time.

_It may be the first time I or my team have personally taken a case from him, even if by accident, it will not likely be the last._

“To be honest, even had I known that it was in your team’s docket, the Croatian is a key to a door that needs opening. The decision would have been the same regardless. He would have been taken from you. I will not apologize, Gregory.”

“Henceforth self-fornicate, Mycroft!” Gregory hissed between gritted teeth as he tossed his linen serviette to the table.

_He forgot to place his napkin to the left. Wait. Did he just tell me to…? He did! Oh, he IS infuriated. Damn, those eyes flash such fire!_

“Such language, Gregory!”

Gregory had pushed his chair back prepared to rise when he saw Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft himself was aware of the rarity of the occasion. Caught off guard by Gregory’s remark Mycroft found himself momentarily speechless. He brought his own serviette to his lips to hide the visual if not the slight audio of his amusement.

“If you are _quite_ through,” Gregory stood.

“Gregory, I apologize, please. Apparently, I have been myself but on a grander scale than usual. I have given no less than three people reason to insult the legitimacy of my parentage and out right curse my name today. Even Lady Smallwood had cause to use much courser language than yours with me.” Mycroft raised a hand in surrender, “It has been awhile since I have been so elegantly, yet crudely put in my place. It took me by surprise. I concede you have every right to your anger, but please stay…”

Mycroft stopped as his mobile buzzed in a familiar pattern.

_Anthea._

“Excuse me Gregory, duty calls…” Mycroft reached in his pocket.

“Give my regards to the scariest woman on earth.” Gregory settled in the chair and waited.

_At least we made it through the entre, this time._

> Their last update it was a triple homicide and suicide that disrupted their first course. When Lestrade left Mycroft had the remaining packed for takeaway and had it delivered to the detective’s home. A grateful Gregory had texted him hours later.
> 
> ››TEXT›› 0301: Best B&E ever. Things being put in instead of taken out. Bless you! I’m starving the only that this make this could better is if you were here. Thank you! – G _._
> 
> Mycroft was awake when the text came in. Surprised by the sentiment he did not know how to respond to it, so he did not, knowing Gregory would assume he was asleep.

_I wondered what you would think to know that I kept that text?_

››TEXT›› 1841: It’s a Notable time spent in the EU. – A _._

››TEXT›› 1943: Regards to the ‘scariest woman on earth’ were sent. – MH

››TEXT›› 1944: Give him my sincerest eyeroll. If Mr. Chicken ever texted me directly I think I would faint, sir. – A

“The ‘scariest woman on earth’ sends her sincerest eyeroll, Gregory.” Mycroft smirked.

››TEXT›› 1944: My dear, you had threatened to emasculate him if he ever contacted you for anything less than life threatening. – MH

“Wow, only an eyeroll? She’s warming up to me, Mycroft. I tell ya. She might even thaw enough to call by my first name by the time I’m sixty.” Gregory retorted with an amused eyeroll of his own.

››TEXT›› 1945: Not true. I threatened to give him a very close shave and if I misjudged my aim? Oops. – A _._

››TEXT›› 1945: Yes. While pointedly looking at his crotch. – MH

››TEXT›› 1946: Besides, he would contact your brother first and you know it. – A _._

_She ignored that?_

››TEXT›› 1946: Point. – MH

››TEXT›› 1947: I’ll await your instructions, sir. – A _._

_Oh, she’s going to spring it on me last._

The text was accompanied with several photos that had downloaded while they texted.

 _And that is why she used a capital letter. You’re not going to like what is going to happen to you, Marcus, but you should have been more careful_.

On a hunch he showed one to Lestrade, “Have you ever seen this man?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Gregory shook his head, “but I do recognize that cufflink of the other guy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those cufflinks also appear in a couple of the photos with we have with the Croatian. They should be in the case files that were _appropriated_.”

Mycroft ignored Gregory’s flash of annoyance at the reminder of the reassigned case.

“Custom job that. No one we’ve spoken to recognizes the artist.” the DI pointed to cufflinks worn on the disembodied forearm nearly out of the image, not the man Mycroft had shown him. “Bastard seems to know the location of every camera. He somehow frames everyone, but himself, fully in the shots the surveillance cameras could capture.”

_That is because he does know the locations and uses them to his advantage._

“I’m going to the loo. I’ll be right back.” Gregory stood and placed his napkin in his seat.

Mycroft nodded and silently sighed as he realized how very much enjoyed the view of Gregory’s stride as he walked away.

He absentmindedly put his hand in his jacket pocket as his other mobile buzzed.

››TEXT›› 2011: The Queen rules on Saturday @ 8. – Tony _._

He looked down at the text. He looked up as Gregory rounded a corner out of view.

Visions of Roxie as he last saw her flitted through his mind.

_Guido…_

Something balled up in a sheet was lowered from the ceiling.

_…I was lazing around my bedroom when you called …_

With infinite grace one arm and then the other was revealed.

_… and an idea occurred to me I thought you might be wondering about…_

One leg just as slowly appeared…and then the other.

_…Who’s not wearing any clothes? I’m not, my darling…_

Roxie was scantily draped in the sheeting that slowly lowered her to the stage floor as she performed. Her nude body stocking had a slight shimmer.

_…I need you to squeeze me here… a _nd here…__

A hand slid seemingly from one breast…to the other…

_…And HERE…_

…to glide between legs slowly being spread eagle.

Roxie could have given old-fashioned burlesque fan dancers lessons in the art conceal and reveal. Between the sheeting and lighting and her oh so sensual airborne moves it gave the impression that all she on, under a sinfully short toga that matched the sheeting, was shimmering body oil, killer heels and her ever wicked smile.

_…You’re gonna steam and scream…_

When her heels finally touched the floor, the sheeting between her legs barely, but strategically covered her bum. Roxie held the toga demurely in front of her while she slowly spun and displayed her shimmering seemingly naked back as she mimed an orgasm.

Mycroft was certain that some patrons in adjoining booths were _not_ simulating.

All was fine until it was a vision of taller silver-haired figure with a gravelly voice in his mind overlaid Roxie’s onstage.

Mycroft had blinked as a different back he had only seen once in a photo.

_Good Lord, Holmes! Stop this! Business first!_

He studied the photos Anthea sent and committed them to memory.

Mycroft knew the man whose face was seen in the image was of one known to have ties with illegal arms running through Northern Ireland and The States. The arm with the cufflinks was known for another matter entirely.

Those cufflinks were also in other photos Anthea sent with someone who had secret affiliations in Karachi.

Lower minions handled the NSY case file, they would not have recognized the cufflinks for what they were on sight. Anthea had and thus her text, knowing he would make the connections and he had.

His lip quirked as thoughts and plans coalesced in his mind.

_Gotcha!_

››TEXT›› 1951: Stall until the next conclave, then initiate the ban lock protocols as discussed last week. Start at level:4. I’m coming in. – MH

››TEXT›› 1953: Protocol started sir; was waiting for the threat level. – A

Mycroft allowed himself a small satisfied smile as a net slowly closed on prey that does not yet know it has been snared. He looked up and Mycroft’s brain played the music from to “A Call From The Vatican” in time to Gregory’s stride as he approached the table.

››TEXT›› 2011: Besides, it’s quite the lovely crotch, is it not, sir? – A _._

_Damn her, as though I had not already noticed! Oh, dear Lord, I think she knows I have._

_…Guido…_

"Stay or go?"

“What?” He blinked and looked up into Lestrade’s familiar warm eyes across the table that looked into his quizzically.

“I asked _stay or go?_ ” Gregory reiterated as he sat again, “You look like you need to take care of something.”

“My apologies, Lestrade. I am going to have to go in after all. How can I make it up to you?”

Gregory gave him a curious look as though pondering something.

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

Gregory reached for his glass and sat back.

_What is on your mind?_

Mycroft was about to take a sip from his own drink when he felt the change in the air. He put his glass down to look at the man as Gregory raised his and took a deep sip.

“Gregory?”

“Let me take you out to dinner.” Greg said quickly, as if he did not say it then, he might not have said it at all.

 _But we just_ had _dinner, I…_

Gregory raised a hand and stopped him, “And because this would be the time you would chose to be obtuse and say we just had dinner; I do mean not on the pretense that it is a Sherlock update. We’ve been here over an hour and your brother’s name had not come up once until I said it just now. Not civil worker to government employee.”

_No. He’s not asking what I think he’s asking…._

Gregory sat forward as he put his glass down on the table and locked unflinching eyes with him. “Just Mycroft. Just Gregory.

_He is serious. He wants to take me out on a date! Me? He’s…a GOOD man... Why?_

Mycroft started to speak, but Greg raised his hand again.

“Mycroft…don’t. Don’t just dismiss me out of hand. Just…don’t…okay? Don’t answer right now. Think about what _you_ _want_ to do, not what think you should do. I’m not afraid of you. We can continue as is if that is what you truly want; I won’t be insulted if you say no, but I don’t think you want to.””

They both heard Mycroft’s mobile buzz in the immediate silence.

“I know, duty calls. The ball’s in your court, now Mr. Holmes. How we play the next round is up to you.” Gregory stood and placed his serviette on the table to the left of his plate this time, “Goodnight Mycroft Holmes.”

“Goodnight Gregory.”

_Oh, dear God, no. In my head is one thing, in my actual life…? Gregory Lestrade has no idea what he’s asking._

_I... I am sorry, cannot._

_But...I want to…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roxie's routine is a mix of Jane Krakowski and Penelope Cruz in "A Call From The Vatican" from the Broadway and cinema versions of the musical "NINE".  
> [ Jane Krakowski's Broadway version](https://www.youtube.com/embed/2kj9P-b9JG8?start=712&end=918&version=3)  
> [ Penelope Cruz' Movie version ](https://youtu.be/7uFy_CbqDhk)


	4. Reigning Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft realizes his interest in a certain drag queen has competition in the form of an unknown sniper and his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Mycroft's POV of Chapter 6 in Fabricdragon's [And That's Showbiz...Kid ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58316908)

Mycroft had thought the text was merely a joke. Once inside the lounge he understood it was a tribute night to the band Queen and a competition. The place was packed and seemingly more rowdy than usual which he imagined was fitting given the theme.

“I like mine tall, and slightly on the insane looking side, but I can see why you like the girl. I heard she never repeats a song, so what number was she doing the first time you saw her, Professor?”

Mycroft had arrived late, nearly every seat in the club was taken. He gritted his teeth and shared a table with another late comer, a bank manager named Clinton and slipped into the persona he assumed for the night. The two men had taken to addressing each other by their occupations instead of names. Naturally, the small talk the goldfish of the world insisted on began and the conversation turned to their favorite performers.

Mycroft had checked himself in the mirror very carefully that evening. Perhaps his mother would recognize the auburn and silver curly haired, bearded, and mustachioed face that had stared back at him. The boring professor that Anthea understood meant that Mycroft Holmes was officially off the grid for a few hours. Tonight Michael Henderson, university professor, made his appearance down to his glasses and worn, leather elbow patched tweed blazer.

The banker, Maynard Clinton, proved to not be quite the dullard Mycroft had feared and was luckily not a chatterbox. The two fell into comfortable silences punctuated by commentary on the performances to various song by Queen, most of which he found dreadful. Naturally, Mycroft did not say as much aloud, but he knew he was going to have one hell of a headache listening to that much rock come morning, but to see Roxie was worth it.

And then, ever the dramatic one, as she knew he was thinking of her, Roxie strode onto center stage as regal as any royal holding court. She wore a floor length shimmering white gown and an excellent hooded replica of Freddie Mercury’s infamous red cloak. Having seen the classic image of Mercury performing in it, even Mycroft recognized for what it was as she on pulled something and pushed the hood back. It opened as it fell over her shoulders and Mycroft could not help but admire the detail as it then looked almost exactly like Mercury’s cloak, she was only missing the crown.

Roxie’s longer than usual blond wig shielded part of her face, still, Mycroft smirked as he noted how Roxie’s dark eyes held the eyes of a man who sat a couple of tables away, in the very expensive front row seats, before she faced forward again.

_Ex-military. SAS. Dishonorable I’d wager. A sniper from the looks of him. Handsome and not a bad dresser; the leather looks good on him. He could be a Garvey or Porlock hand-pick, but I’m thinking free-lance._

Mycroft knew Roxie had her devoted fan-base, he was there himself after all, but there was something different this. The sniper was pushed from his mind when the lights dimmed. A solo spotlight found her and she began to perform. Where all the other performers went for an up-tempo song, Roxie went the polar exact opposite with a dramatic ballad.

_Japanese? She’s singing in Japanese! I mean lip syncing, the mouth and throat movements are perfect, this isn’t imitating the phonetics, she knows the language._

Mycroft gave up, letting himself be immersed in the performance until the spotlight dimmed as the last note lingered turning the stage black. When the lights turned on again a moment later she was gone.

Even Mycroft had not realized he was on his feet until he sat back down.

“Oh, bloody hell! I feel sorrow for anyone coming up after her,” Clinton shook his head sadly taking his own seat, “They don’t stand a chance!”

_I’m glad I stayed for this, but it is time to go. I know she’s going to win. I don’t need to stay._

“Do have a pleasant evening, Banks. I think I will pay my tab and head out now.” Mycroft drained his glass and placed it on the table.

“You’re kidding, right?” his table looked up at him incredulously. “There’s three more acts and the competition has not begun!”

“What competition, Banks?” Mycroft snorted derisively. “It’s a run for second place, you and I both know my Roxie is going to win this.”

_Mycroft Holmes, did you just say, “My Roxie”? Out loud? Heavens man! Do pull yourself together!_

“Perhaps…” Clinton tried, but Mycroft merely raised a brow.

“Come on, Professor. It’s a Saturdaye night, it’s not like North Korea is going to bomb us.”

“Why? What have you heard?” Mycroft’s sharp focus turned to the man.

“Nothing mate, you political science uni types always think someone’s gonna get us. Relax, we’re in England! We have the best people looking out for that kind of thing for us and I guarantee it’s not anyone who would ever frequent a dive like this.” Clinton rolled his eyes oblivious to the man he shared a table with.

It took _everything_ Mycroft had to contain his amusement to a mere smile and not a belly laugh. He almost, wished one of his Ultra colleagues were a witness to the utter absurdity of the moment.

“Tell you what professor. I’ll concede your girl has a chance for the top spot, but I say my girl, Vera1, can take her…”

_Surely you jest!_

The smile turned into a closed mouth grin that could not be held back, “No, Clinton. She’s a pretty thing and quite talented, but she’s not even going to qualify to compete.” Mycroft shook his head sadly.

Yes, the banker’s preferred queen was very amusing, but unless the universe smiled upon her, she simply did not have the presence to rise above the level of The Queens Lounge. He stood and raised a hand to signal their server dressed as a video game character, “Laura?”

Clinton silently pulled out his wallet and put some notes on the table. “Care to wager?”

It was not often Mycroft let himself be fully immersed in the moment. His mind always thinking, always analyzing, always calculating, always waiting for that shoe to drop. Secure in his disguise, sitting among the goldfish who were there to simply enjoy a night out he let himself relax just a little.

“I believe the saying goes: a fool and his money…?” Mycroft took out his wallet, matched Clinton’s wager and sat as their server arrived, “The gentleman and I will have another round of drinks.”

The MC stepped back onstage to announce whom among the queens would be the top three competing.

Neither of their choices, was called first.

Neither of their choices was called next.

Mycroft turned to Clinton in reminder, “Do remember, Banks, I wagered your girl was not going to make it all.”

“The MC hasn’t called the final na…”

Clinton never got to finish the sentence as Mycroft merely pointed to the stage as Roxie’s name was called.

Mycroft did not touch the cash on the table as he searched his mind palace to see if he knew the song the MC announced the contestants would perform. Though the patrons knew, it was rock, he drew a blank as a short intermission was taken to give the queens a few minutes to prepare.

Two of the queens’ eyes scanned the stage as they quickly plotted their strategies and moves. One queen simply stood off to the side and smiled.

It was Roxie.

“Damn, look at that smile, she knows she’s got this wrapped, doesn’t she?” Clinton whistled appreciatively at the vicious toothy grin. It was made even more sinister with the crimson lips and long blond Veronica Lake wave shielding half of Roxie’s face.

_No, that wickedness is not a smile. That is the look of a killer who has his target dead to rights and is about to pull the trigger._

Mycroft noticed the ex-soldier had a very satisfied expression as he handed a small package to the stage manager.

_There’s was a camaraderie between he and Anthony, not just staff and customer. Oh, they know each other. Hmmm._

He activated the camera in the glasses he wore, aimed them at ex-soldier and sent the stream to Anthea. He knew she would easily determine which of those things was not like the other.

››TEXT›› 2139: Have someone find and interview him. See if he is worth my time as an asset. – MH

››TEXT›› 2147: Search initiated. Will inform once identification is made. – A

As Anthony walked away, with the gift, the ex-soldier glanced at Roxie with a _cat that ate the canary_ look. He was just as sure Roxie was going to win this as Mycroft.

_A trinket for Roxie. It’s going to break his heart when she returns it. Roxie barely speaks to the customers and never accepts gifts from what I’ve observed before._

“Aww that’s going to hurt her.” Clinton pointed to the stage as Roxie shot the MC a dirty look but took her position off to side as she rezipped her hood and pulled it up over her head again.

“They are attempting to handicap her by putting her off to the side. It won’t work.” Mycroft said confidentially as the music began.

Not familiar with the music, Mycroft did not know what to expect, but a Roxie that pulled her cloak around her and seemingly melted into a crimson puddle was not it.

_If whoever chose that song thought they were handicapping Roxie, they were sorely mistaken._

Roxie slowly rose like a blood drop in reverse before she suddenly strutted forward. The cloak almost seemed alive the way it swirled around her as she moved; in turns a cape, wings or crimson that dripped like blood being poured from her fingers.

All the while lip syncing and owning the stage, which was why it was startling to suddenly hear her voice, “Move over! I said move over!” in command to the competing drag queen closest to her on stage who startled out of her own performance to obey as she gave Roxie the right of way.

The competing queen barely had a moment to recover when Roxie suddenly vaulted from her part of the stage…

And landed near Mycroft.

Because he had always sat in the back before, hidden in a booth, he realizes he has never been this close to her before as she snatched the scotch out of his hand.

Every gut instinct in Mycroft’s mind screamed to look at her face.

_No! You are doomed to have the details of a face you know you can’t touch forever stuck in your brain if you do._

He kept his eyes on a slack-jawed Clinton who simply stared at her in his stead.

It felt like he himself was on fire as he could feel the heat of her body radiating as she quickly passed behind and slammed the now empty glass down on the other side of him and kept going with her act much to the enthused reactions of those around him.

It was Clinton’s raucous laughter that brought him back into himself, the moment gone. He looked up and noticed the soldier again. The way the man’s eyes followed Roxie’s every move with wonder and respect.

Mycroft found himself watching the sniper as well as Roxie as she made her way to him. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward and all but snarled centimeters from the man’s stunned like a deer caught in headlights face. She was back on the stage before the poor man could right himself.

_My God, he is utterly enamored of Roxie._

She made her way back to her part of the stage and finished her act and the song with a dramatic flourish.

“There can be only one!”

_She is in her element and she knows it. Regretfully, the other two queens know it as well._

Clinton pretended to push the money on the table towards him. It was that much of a given at that point, but all understood the pretense of the judges going backstage to deliberate.

Mycroft slid the glass Roxie held over to him and looked at it carefully. He made sure his fingers did not touch the finger prints on the sides and the bright red lip print gracing the rim of the glass.

_It would be so easy to slip the glass into a pocket, no one would notice._

“That is a gorgeous necklace. Someone likes her - a lot.”

He looked up at Clinton’s words as the three contestants returned to the stage for the inevitable crowning of the obvious winner and saw the necklace Roxie now wore. 

Mycroft knew the not exactly cheap gift was from the soldier who looked pleased as punch to see it worn. The gold lavalier chain, adorned with a gold and ruby pendant was indeed nearly down to Roxie’s waist. The combined look of the red cloak, the white gown, and the lavaliere was made perfect as Roxie is crowned the winner.

His mother’s love of musicals aids him again as the lyrics came to him.

“Not just a necklace, Banks, a lavaliere. One befitting her name.” Mycroft corrected the man and explained the musical connection.

Roxie gave a sharp smile, for she knew her win was a foregone conclusion, and waved her thanks to the audience in general, but there was something about the way she glanced at the former soldier in which Mycroft deduced that the burgeoning feelings may be reciprocated.

The looks exchanged between the two was the ice-cold water that doused the fire-hot fantasies that Mycroft knew would have never come to life for him anyway.

_A drag queen and a mercenary. As unlikely a couple as that is, it has more a chance of becoming something than I could hope to offer anyone, especially Gregory._

Mycroft’s entire mental being froze at the unexpected, but he would not lie to himself - not completely unwarranted - thought.

Nearly two months have passed since Gregory asked him out. The first month really was work with issues in multiple hot spots demanding his attention. The past two weeks he had no excuse other the war within himself of the heart that wanted to say yes, the head that had all valid excuses why he should not lined-up, and the soul that still deemed him unworthy of such a good man. Yet he could not make himself say the words to Gregory one way or another and was angered at his own cowardice. 

_He deserves better and I'm too damned selfish to let him go and to try find it elsewhere._

“Sir?" Laura, their server who returned with another drink for Clinton had interrupted his thoughts before they could continue their downward spiral, "Ms. Roxie would like you to have this...” she placed what was clearly a photograph down on the table for him, “You’re lucky you’re getting the very first of her newest. She has not offered this to the public yet.”

Not letting go of the glass he held he picked up the photo with his free hand. It was a photograph of Roxie dangling upside down from sheet twisted around her seemingly naked body. Her hair a blond waterfall nearly swept the floor. Crimson lips in a subtle moue and her eyes half-hooded gave a look of heightened pleasure on her face. With both of her hands over her crotch between tightly squeezed thighs, the reason why was a given.

The official caption at the bottom read: I NEED YOU TO SQUEEZE ME _HERE_

 _I believe I drained you dry, my darling. Now be a big boy and swallow some of this for me_ was scribbled across the floating sheet with Roxie’s signature. 

Mycroft knew the photo was a reference to the end of her “A Call From The Vatican” routine and he’d be damn if he could not hear in the sultry singing voice of the song saying those words.

It was a posed promotional photograph taken after the performance. The image was not available that night. He had heard more than one person ask if she had a photograph in that outfit available. Mycroft could not blame them.

It was instinct more than desire that made him run a hand over the image and quirked a brow. “Do give Ms. Roxie my sincere thanks.”

“She also said your have excellent taste in liquor and sends you this as well.” Laura placed a fresh glass of liquor in front of him.

“Laura, how much is your monthly flat rate?” Mycroft asked.

“How do you…?” Laura blinked a couple of times then answered.

Mycroft picked up all the cash on the table and placed some on her tray. “For our bill…” and before Laura could think to protest at the physical contact, Mycroft shoved the remainder in a cargo pocket of his shorts. “…and for you. You’ve been wonderful.”

“Oh! Oh! Why, thank you! Oh my God! _THANK YOU_!” Laura gushed. “You’re a doll!”

_Well that’s a first. Too bad it was all for the generous professor._

For a moment it appeared Clinton was going to protest as Laura gleefully walked away.

“We wagered. You lost. The winnings are mine to do with as I please.” Mycroft gave him the full Iceman glare. Any potential grievances from the man were quelled. "It’s been a delightful evening, but now I really must depart.” He pushed his untouched drink towards him. “Enjoy.”

“Goodnight, Professor.” Banks lifted the drink in salute.

Mycroft held the photo of Roxie close to his heart, “Goodnight, Banks. It _will_ be.”

Clinton laughed heartily.

Mycroft's mobile pinged He put the photo down and pulled out his mobile.

››TEXT›› 2317 Subject identified, domicile located, pick-up for interview in place upon subject's arrival. – A

_Excellent._ _Tonight: interview with the sniper._

_And hopefully soon more than an -interview- with a certain threat to my brother and my country as soon as a team can pick him up._

“Are you finished with your drink sir?” one of the busboys came to the table.

Mycroft looked at the empty glass he still held carefully in his hand. He could see Roxie’s clear perfect fingerprint and the blood red lip print at the rim. He knew he could easily pocket the glass, turn it in to his team and unless Roxie has otherwise been an angel his entire life outside of the lounge, which was highly unlikely, he could possibly have an ID tomorrow.

_Mycroft Holmes stop this! She’s a drag queen in a dive bar and you’re one of the most powerful men on Earth! Why are you doing this to yourself? This is not who you want, and you know it. Walk away – now!_

In the future, Mycroft is going to recall three times involving this where he did not listen to his initial inclinations and will never know if Fate, Karma and Universe cursed or blessed him for it – this was the second:

Mycroft stood, picked up the photograph, and let the glass go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen “Teo Torriatte”: ["https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJxQVJpYDu4 ](https://youtu.be/WDynFluHPJs>https://youtu.be/WDynFluHPJs</a>%0AQueen%20%E2%80%9CGimme%20The%20Prize%E2%80%9D%20<a%20hrfe-)  
> Jim Carrey as Vera de Milo (from the 90’s American TV sketch comedy “In Living Color”): [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=402C_WwFGL0 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=402C_WwFGL0)


	5. To Those Who Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things come to a Mycroft who waits. Some things are lost to a Mycroft who waits too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during the beginning of [chapter 6 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58316908)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

Mycroft listened as his immediate team gave their briefings as they walked through the building.

_Damn, it has been nearly a month. I have yet to return Gregory’s call._

“The death of the political target on our watch list was tricky. The death was a hit. One designed to look like a random shot in the middle of a protest. The country does not have the resources we do. The trajectory was wrong, for the type of shot it is officially labeled. It was a sniper hit, from quite a distance.”

“You also think it was him, Moran, that took out Colfeld?” Anthea asked, but Mycroft knew she already knew the answer as well as he did.

He was still angry at the loss of the two minor agents who had gone to retrieve Sebastian Moran and Anthea knew it. Still, Mycroft was impressed with how they were taken down. It was clear he had help with how quickly and efficiently he had disappeared immediately afterward, but Mycroft could tell the kill of the agents was all Moran. The former SIS military sniper’s hand-to-hand skills were equally impressive in the heavily redacted file from when he served the Crown and Country until some Army idiot had stupidly cut the man loose for having Northern Irish sympathies. He has been somewhat of a rogue mercenary since with no known affiliations.

_I do detest inane and unnecessary losses. And that was the epitome of both._

A man with that skillset would have been an impressive asset and Mycroft had a sinking suspicion the sniper had been picked-up by someone on Jim Moriarty’s team, if not by the man himself.

_At least none of my colleagues got him. That would have truly galled me._

“There are only but so many elite snipers out there who could have made that shot, sir. Most of whom are easily accounted for.” Mycroft conceded, “Yes, it could have been a lucky shot of a lessor operator, but it’s simplicity was almost flashy. Of the known rogues out there, that is his style when he wants it to be known it was his hit. It was not near his record, but impressive nonetheless.”

“Only that Navy SEAL, Kyle, from the States has a better record, but he had served his unit longer.” Broner, one Mycroft’s high-level agents that walked with them sniffed, “Still, heaven help us should Moran ever wanted to truly show off.”

“Indeed.” Anthea glanced at her mobile and gave him a slight nod. “It is done, sir.” 

Mycroft returned the slight nod in acknowledgement of hearing her.

“Broner, I expect Beijing’s update to be on my desk in the morning. Smythe, same from you on why there is suddenly chatter twixt Sheyang, Baishan, Manpo and Busan.” Mycroft looked to the other agents, then pressed the call button for the lifts. “I will be at Diogenes for the rest of the afternoon. No disturbances.”

He barely acknowledged the affirmations heard as the lift doors opened and he stepped in.

The lighting in his subterranean office was designed to mimic the conditions outside. Most days he is barely cognizant of the difference. Today, he felt the claustrophobia of the room and needed to be out from it.

The shock of seeing Lord Nicholas Dodson, formerly codenamed: Honor, with a phalanx of security that surrounded him as he was escorted to the holding cells reverberated the building.

“Sir Dodson. Do not speak. Please relinquish your mobile, your ring and any other property currently on your person which belongs to Crown and Country and place them on the table, then back away from it slowly.”

Mycroft entered the conference room and dropped the bomb without preamble while two security officers entered behind him with more outside. For a moment, a very brief moment, Mycroft knew the man considered dissembling. In the end he looked almost relieved as he did as he was instructed while charges were announced.

_God, was it really only less than forty-eight hours ago?_

He knew at least Smallwood and Edwin had thought Marcus Isles was the mole as Dodson had wanted all to think. Francis was just getting wind of it but knew Banner would never betray the group. Isles, sensing trouble but not knowing what, had gone to Francis for help but neither knew where to look because neither had considered the attack was internal. Antarctica had tossed the lookalike custom cufflinks that were the catalyst in the initial framing of Marcus Isles, on the table before Dodson. The cuff links were pilfered from Dodson’s home by Broner that very morning. Mycroft then laid out his iron-clad evidence before all the members. There was no question of Honor’s betrayal against Banner. An act done in revenge because nearly two years ago Banner had countered one of Honor’s ploys. A move that accidentally put Dodson and his family in the direct crosshairs of foreign terrorist. When the failed ploy caused problems, the terrorist went through the chains to the person who could solve it: James Moriarty. The criminal Mastermind who was more than happy to exploit the situation.

The first time Honor tried to disobey; his wife was in a not quite as accidental as Dodson thought car accident. The second time, his eldest son was almost fatally stabbed in a ‘mugging’. Periodic hints via photos on just how vulnerable his youngest son was to attack kept him in line until he had done enough himself that physical harm to his family was not warranted. It was those things that now had him and his PA in a cell for treason and other crimes against the nation. It was Honor’s PA that sparked Mycroft’s suspicion and investigation. He bore a small scar on the left wrist bone that showed past the cufflinked sleeve in many of the photos staged to look as though Isle’s was the culprit. Both men were in separate cells that required the biometrics of at least three of the remaining Ultra members to open. There they will both remain until a decision on what will be done with them is determined.

_Dodson knows as one of us there will be no trial; the only jury of his -peers- are us, and he betrayed us. He will never see the light of day again. It would be solitary confinement for the rest of his life. He knows too much._

Mycroft knew Anthea already had a contingency packet at the ready for the soon-to-be widowed Lady Sharon Dodson.

_The question remains by his own hand or by proxy. The suicide itself is a certainty._

He had taken his meds to stave off a burgeoning migraine earlier, but his eyes would not let him concentrate on any of the reading work he would have done in-transit. It was not often he indulged in such, so he put the paperwork back in his briefcase and cracked open the window slightly. He sighed as he looked at late afternoon streets of London on the way to Diogenes.

As he sat in traffic, he pulled out his mobile, speed dialed a familiar number and looked out the window as it rang.

It was how he spotted Gregory Lestrade across the street, exiting a store.

Clearly off-duty he wore a Ramones concert tee under a button down and black leather moto jacket. Faded jeans, that fit him well, with a natural rip at one knee and a dark bandana tied around the opposite knee, and black motorcycle boots.

Mycroft knew Gregory owned a motorcycle that he rarely rode anymore except to visit his uncle’s farm up country. He had seen footage of him leaving Baker Street dress to ride, but never in person.

_Damn he looks good in leather._

He watched Gregory sigh and quickly fished in a pocket when his mobile rang. just as he took it out of his pocket a hand reached around and snatched it.

-“You said _no work_ , Lestrade.”- Mycroft read the lips of the man that snatched the mobile.

Mycroft studied the man who had come up behind Gregory. Irish. Attractive. Solid, but not bulky. Military in the way he carried himself. Ex-military, going by the dark sandy brown hair too long by military standards. A few centimeters taller than Gregory, they were around the same age. In dark jeans, a classic white tee under a brown leather jacket and brown boots, the two looked good together. Mycroft found himself riveted to the interplay between the two men.

_He is clearly someone close to Greg. Who else would be so foolish as to snatch a mobile out of a police officer’s hand even as a joke?_

-“Oi! Give that back you wanker!”- Gregory’s laughed as he picked it the extra helmet from the back of the Harley. He punched the other man in the arm with it and snatched his mobile back. -“Here!”-

The man laughed and rubbed his arm in an exaggerated expression of pain.

_Who the bloody hell is he?_

Gregory, looked at his mobile as it still rang. His thumb hovered over the device and then flicked to the side.

Mycroft hung up in surprise as Lestrade’s voicemail immediately came on.

_He... Gregory… He declined my call?_

Lestrade stared at his mobile a moment longer. The other man had said something, but with the helmet on, Mycroft could not longer read his lips. Gregory nodded in response to whatever was said and put the mobile back in his pocket.

_He DECLINED me?!?!_

Mycroft almost screamed for his driver to stop when the car crept forward as the traffic moved, but it was barely a car length before it stopped again. Lestrade and his companion were still in sight. He watched as Lestrade swung a leg over and mounted the Harley. And wasn’t that… _distracting_ …until the other man climbed on behind Lestrade.

Mycroft’s extensive vocabulary could not put to words the sorrowful ache that wrenched his soul as he watched the man snuggle up close to Gregory.

_That should be me…_

He laid his helmeted chin on Gregory’s shoulder and after Gregory said something, wrapped his arms around Gregory’s waist and held tight. 

Even from that distance he could see Lestrade’s wide smile as he patted the man’s arm that grasped him.

_That smile should be for me!_

Gregory started the Harley, revved it, waited for an opening and pulled out into traffic going in the opposite direction.

_Three hundred, forty-eight days. I have no one to blame. No one but myself…_

That was the dinner Gregory Lestrade had asked him out on a real date and left the ball in his court.

The ball Mycroft let sit for a month and then dropped it.

He dropped it by arranging a dinner and making a point of talking about Sherlock. He saw the silent, but emotional stutter as Gregory caught on and with it. The frequent dinners became less so as the issues with investigating Honor, a few international instances, as well as some murder cases that pulled Lestrade’s time. And of course, the continued search for Moriarty above all else.

_A ball someone else has now picked up._

Mycroft stifled a moan of pain as his mind flashed how the strange man straddled the Harley behind Gregory and got close.

Even though they had not spoken for a week after Lestrade returned from a recent holiday with his family, when Mycroft asked Lestrade to go to Dartmoor and Grimpen Village to see what devilment Sherlock was up to by impersonating him at Baskerville, Gregory had done so without complaint.

_That should have warned me. He always called me to the table when I get overbearing. That time he did not._

His mind flashed how close the strange man leaned his chin on Gregory’s shoulder and held tight. Mycroft clenched his fist.

On his return to London, Gregory had called in, gave a summary of Sherlock and Dr. Watson’s shenanigans. Mycroft had said he was busy and would call him.

The first part was true. He had almost everything he needed to prove Banner’s innocence and Honor’s guilt and had focused on that. It was only today nearly a month since that call, Mycroft realized how much time had passed.

_He’s a patient man, but he’s not a monk._

Mycroft had not realized how tight he clenched his teeth as his mind spiraled at thought of Lestrade with another man until he felt the ache in his jaw when he loosened it to answer his mobile.

“I said no disturba…”

“We’ve got HIM, sir.” Anthea cut him off.

Mycroft understood the emphasis.

“The way you thought you had Moran?” He snarled.

“The way he is unconscious, in restraints and is being brought in, _now_.”

“On my way.” Mycroft rang out.

His mind flashed on Gregory’s smile of pleasure at the strange man’s touch.

_That should have been me!_

Mycroft pressed the intercom for the driver.

“Sirens. Back to Whitechapel. NOW.” 


	6. Attention Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two prisoners: one resigned to his fate, waiting to die, the other fights it tooth and nail and nearly dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during the beginning of [chapter 6 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58316908)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

Mycroft Holmes was accustomed to people getting out of his way while trying to _not_ make it look as though they were doing so. It did not register that the people he passed were not trying to hide their wide berth of him this time. The intensity of his near feral gaze under his furrowed brow made gave veracity to his pseudonym as he stalked through the public part of the building through medical to the private parts. There were the public holding cells for those whom they want to be made public. Dodson’s PA was held there as an example of due process for his treason. A carefully cultivated leak of his imprisonment was about to be made public.

Dodson on the other hand was held in the private holding cells at Whitechapel used solely by Ultra.

“Where is he?”

Anthea met him one level up from medical, together they descended the steps to deeper level.

“He was brought in via the back channel. I presumed you did not want the rest to know about his acquisition.”

“You are correct.”

“He resisted sir.”

“Of course, he did, before you tranqed him.”

“No, sir. After.” Anthea explained, “The dose given should have put him down for over an hour…”

“What happened…?” Mycroft stopped.

“He came out approximately twenty minutes before expected. They were almost in the building when he attempted escape…”

“And…?”

“He pulled an agent’s gun. Broner was shot, a grazing, he’s receiving stitches and should be joining us shortly…”

Mycroft waited, knowing more was coming. He gave Anthea a look that said _get on with it._

“Ed Warner is dead, sir. Shot with his own weapon, point blank. Moriarty is surprisingly fast and stronger than he looks even partially sedated. Kinnard is badly injured; he’s in the OR at King’s – we don’t know… It took three other agents joining in to get him restrained again and they were… enthusiastic…in their efforts.”

Mycroft knew the agents that were hand-picked for the extraction. They know how to hurt without leaving marks if they chose to. It was their own being taken down, he understood they had not chosen to.

Mycroft silently stepped away from her and entered the adjoining observation room to medical.

He has had the occasional texting spars with the brilliant criminal who somehow got the number of the burner phone. The bad part was Mycroft expected he might have liked the man were his interests more benign and not targeted on him, his brother, or against the interests of the Crown. He had Sherlock’s description, plus other photos of the man while they searched for him. He knew what James Moriarty looked like: hair always perfectly groomed, impeccable bespoke suits and shoes.

That was not the gagged, nearly bedraggled man he viewed strapped to the exam table as the doctor tended him.

_It had been a very rough take down._

Moriarty’s hair stood on end. The suit was ripped and dirty. An armed agent, Ellis, was at his side, finger already near the trigger of his firearm, silently begging for Jim to give him a reason. 

Mycroft knew that was not the reason Moriarty laid docile. Jim Moriarty may have been physically quiet, but his dark eyes screamed volumes as they took in the room.

Moriarty’s belongings including two mobiles, his wallet and weapons were laid out on a table. Mycroft eyes scanned the items. His team will try to access them.

_One is a burner likely used as I use mine. The other may be useful, though odds are it is just as booby-trapped as Irene Adler’s had been._

Though he laid there peaceably, no one was stupid enough to trust him to be loose long enough to remove his own clothes properly. Not in medical where there were far too many things that can be come weapons. The clothing was cut away until Moriarty was stripped to his socks and pants as the doctor examined him.

“Such a waste of a beautiful suit.” Mycroft sighed as though bored, at the pile of shreds placed with the belongings, “a Westwood, I believe.”

Strong looking arms and legs were revealed.

“He must work out; he’s well put together,” Anthea commented as she typed in her mobile.

Mycroft felt a faint sense of Déjà vu, but dismissed it knowing he had never seen Moriarty’s body before. Anthea was correct, he definitely put up a fight, and the agents had definitely retaliated. What promises to be deep bruises were already appearing on his arms and torso.

Whitaker, the doctor attending him, listed his various injuries out loud for their records. He differentiated between old scars and their approximate ages, versus what received from the agents. A particularly nasty looking gash ran the back of his hand past his wrist where Moriarty had fallen, at least partially, onto the recently watered flower bed. The cuts had been washed clean, but dirt had been ground into the wound the during the scuffle.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at Moriarty’s reaction when Whitaker prepped the injection site and announced he was going to administer amoxicillin to ward off possible infections.

He began to grunt and twist on the cot as much as his restraints allowed, which was not much at all.

“Keep still!” Agent Ellis snapped, but it was clear Moriarty was not listening, his eyes going wide.

“I can still inject him; it will just hurt more if I miss the vein.” The doctor said calmly, but with a touch of menace as he drew a measure of the antibiotic from the vial into a syringe.

“What’s wrong with him?” Anthea’s eyes narrowed as she watched Moriarty. His eyes shifted from rage to wild panic, struggling in earnest as Whittaker pushed the plunger to the syringe and approached him.

Moriarty looked to the two-way mirror, screaming behind his gag. Mycroft could just make out the man screaming “NO!” and the agent’s finger slid a little closer to the trigger when it seemed Moriarty might break a restraint in his desperate struggle to get away from Whitaker.

_It’s an antibiotic shot, why is he reacting as though he’s about to di…_

Mycroft’s eyes scanned Moriarty’s belongings again quickly. He did not see what he was looking for, but then Jim Moriarty would not advertise such a thing.

Mycroft flipped the switch to the room’s intercom just as the needle pierced Moriarty’s skin.

“STOP! He’s allergic! You’ll kill him!”

“My God!” Whitaker immediately withdrew the needle and capped it. “I forgot to ask. My apologies…”

Moriarty’s body slumped in the restraints with immense relief at the much too close for comfort save. Eyes closed he faced the wall as he hyperventilated around the gag, his head nodded rapidly in affirmation of Mycroft’s words.

“Are you okay with Clarithromycin?” Whitaker asked after a moment; Moriarty nodded again, gratefully.

Mycroft flipped the switch to the microphone off and looked to Anthea, “He must have a deadly allergy to any penicillin going by his reaction. Nothing is in the admittedly miniscule file we have on him.”

“There is no medical alert bracelet in his belongings, I looked, nor is there an EPI pen. Stupid of him, then again, a man like him cannot risk such knowledge getting out.” Anthea nodded in agreement, “his enemies would surely use it against him.”

They watched as Dr. Whitaker changed antibiotics and administered it.

Mycroft flipped the microphone on again and spoke calmly, conversationally.

“We have gone through quite some changes to obtain your fine company Mr. Moriarty. It would be such a shame for you to depart it - _dearly_. We will remove the gag so you may speak. Anything that is not _Yes_ or _No_ or otherwise a direct answer to any medical questions the doctor may have, the gag goes back on and whatever happens. Happens. Do you understand?”

Moriarty was breathing normally again. He turned his head to face the mirror again, his dark eyes now calm, which made them even more unsettling given the circumstances, but he slowly nodded.

“Doctor Whitaker you may remove the gag and continue to treat our _guest_.”

Mycroft hid his pleasure at the narrowing of Moriarty’s eyes at his emphasis of the word guest. Whitaker reached behind Moriarty and Mycroft all but saw the thought as the agent brought his gun up.

“Oh, and no biting or spitting. It seems our agents are none too happy with you at the moment, sudden head movements may lead to sudden finger movements. There will be other non-medical questions for you later. You wanted my attention. You've got it. Do enjoy your _stay_ , Mr. Moriarty.”

Moriarty worked his jaw for a bit, then looked directly at the glass, a gleam in his eyes.

“Hello Mikey. There would have been no honor in that death, though there will be a death in Honor.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, flipped off the communications switch and walked away. “Let him sulk in the cell for a bit. Have one of our third tier start in the morning.”

“ _Our_ in the morning or _his_ in the morning?’ Anthea asked as the headed for the door.

 _Our morning_ meant the next day. Moriarty would get a night’s rest. _His morning_ meaning it begins three hours after James Moriarty is alone in his cell. The beginning of messing up his time cues and circadian clock. The beginning of his _questioning_.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder into the room where Dr. Whitaker was typing information into a tablet. Moriarty continued to stare at the two-way not knowing Mycroft was leaving the room.

Antarctica closed the door behind him. “ _His_.”

***

Anthea placed a fresh cup of tea, along with a file, in front of Mycroft.

“Thank you,” Mycroft looked through the file quickly.

Anthea took a seat and pulled out her mobile. He knew she did not need it for this. Though not anywhere near his level, she had a remarkable memory of her own.

_She’s more than likely rechecking my meeting schedule and researching info on one of the various questions I’ve set to her even as she talks to me. Or she's playing “Candy Crush.”_

“We know Dodson, Smallwood and Edwin have obtained Moriarty’s services multiple times either directly or via a proxy. Those certain jobs where their hands must remain clean or at least appear that way and must disavow all knowledge of the actions. Since we and Smallwood stopped using freelancers after Tbilisi and developed IMF; it was Dodson and Edwin who continued from time to time, eventually only Dodson which is why Moriarty had to keeps his grips in him. He had nothing on the rest of us.” Anthea put the mobile down, “Dodson realized I was getting close. He arranged the meeting with Moriarty knowing he was tapped. His goal was to have other freelancers take Moriarty out as we arrived.” Mycroft placed his palms together before his chin. “He had not anticipated I would get to him first before he could not counteract the plan.”

Mycroft’s desk phone rang, he looked at the ID and immediately put it on speaker. “Stephen, you’re seventeen minutes late, twenty-six by the ti…”

“Sir!” Broner interrupted. “There’s been attempt on Lord Dodson.”


	7. When The Irresistible Meets The Immovable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is learning capturing Moriarty was hard enough, getting information out of him is even harder...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [chapter 6 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58316908)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“Report.” Mycroft gritted his teeth as they left the dead body of Agent Ellis in medical. He flicked a glance at Agent Broner’s bruised knuckles which told his side of the fatal encounter.

“I saw Smythe’s notification of suspected food poisoning. Smythe is second tier he never would have been replaced with an under tier like Ellis.” Anthea said with an added curse.

“Exactly. Smythe went through protocol. Agent Washburn was on his way in as replacement. I came down to sit with Smythe until Washburn’s arrival when his shift partner, Agent Hughes, silently red pinged me when Ellis appeared against protocol. I found Hughes just waking from being knocked unconscious and Ellis entering Dodson’s cell. He had intended to make it look like suicide.” Broner said, “I neutralized the situation, but regrettably not before Ellis had informed Dodson that Moriarty knows he was the one that betrayed him, that he’s in the building and sends, and I quote: _the only_ honor _you’re worthy of: death_. Accommodations have been switched while his cell is processed, Moriarty was had not been released from medical at the time. He was not brought to his cell until all was cleared. Dodson is understandably unsettled. Ellis once worked for him; he had no idea he worked for Moriarty.”

_Ellis was under tier, but still that is far too close for comfort. I need to know who else that madman might hold._

_We lost two days learning he is allergic to the drugs used for narcoanalysis and then flushing his system to heal him. It is a miracle no one has killed him accidentally._

“How is he?” Mycroft asked, “Is he still not cooperating?”

“No sir.” Broner answered, “Given his various allergies we simply cannot risk any traditional narcotics which may kill him. More traditional methods are being deployed, he has proven to be _highly resistant_.”

“Oh?” Mycroft looked to Broner.

“He has an incredible pain tolerance. He does not react when beaten. Simply gives back this blank stare that is frankly very disquieting.” Broner explained.

_It's amazing how someone so biologically fragile in one way is so damned tough physically in another._

“Does anyone know if he disassociates?” Mycroft asked.

“I’ve reviewed the footage. Honestly sir, now that I think on it, he reminds me of when you go deep in your mind.” Anthea answered.

Mycroft raised a brow, “Relay to me the footage where you believe this had occurred. I will review it.”

_It would make sense. Sherlock and I cannot be the only students of Loci in the UK._

“Report states he only shows immediate response to stimuli when on the board. It is usually to curse or deduce the working agents into beating him so the boarding stops. Two days ago, he played Agents Cox and Riley off each other to the point where they nearly came to blows when Riley’s affair with Cox’s wife was revealed. Only Sherlock could be more quick or vicious in his deductions, but he usually does not wield it as like a fine honed weapon as Moriarty.” Broner continued.

Mycroft could not argue with that assessment of his younger brother whom he was watched bring people to tears with his total lack of tact or filter when bringing a person’s faults and sins to light.

“That was of note for no other reason that Agent Cox is gay.” Anthea noted. “Also, I had to pull Agent Malcolm Warner from detail. The agent killed in the take down of Moriarty, Edward Warner, was a cousin. He was especially heavy handed and threatened rape.”

“What?” Mycroft stopped in his tracks; his voice dropped to glacier levels. “That was NEVER authorized for Moriarty. Explain!”

“Sir! Agents Riley and Singh were on detail with Warner. His report stated that it was the last round of boarding. Moriarty was in Position 17 for the added humiliation. Singh had weapon at ready while Warner released the restraints. Reid was retrieving the towels and change of clothes when he heard the sound of a fist making contact with skin. Singh reported it was several punches in rapid succession. Reid admitted he assumed Moriarty had done something further to aggravate Warner. Moriarty deduced the familiar connection and proceeded to taunt Warner, between sessions who up to that point had not reacted, thus Reid did not think much of it. When Singh did not react, neither did he. Singh reported Moriarty did nothing to instigate that attack, but it was nothing egregiously out of the standard. Singh then reported that Warner walked around towards Moriarty’s legs. When Warner unzipped, Singh admitted he thought Warner was going to masturbate. It was greatly pushing the line, but again…” Anthea shrugged slightly.

_Nothing egregiously out of the standard mental or emotional debasement. And…?_

Mycroft crossed his arms and waited.

“Agent Warner pulled out his penis and struck Moriarty in the crease of the hip and thigh stated he wondered if he, Moriarty, was now _wet enough_ and should he find out. Because of the restraints keeping him stable Moriarty could not move. We believe Moriarty immediately disassociated because Singh said his body immediately went slack when Warner shifted his penis to Moriarty’s perineum. Singh then turned his weapon on Warner as both he and Reid ordered him to stand down and step away. Reid reported when he heard Warner unzip, he dropped the items he held and reached to the wall where he and Warner had stored their weapons during the assignment. Singh report confirmed Reid’s weapon was also on Warner when he was instructed to stand down. In hindsight, Reid had stated that when Moriarty was first brought into the room he slipped and almost fell to the floor. Singh had caught him by the waist; barely, thus Moriarty had a hand on the floor to break the fall. Warner stepped on his fingers then immediately apologized. Reid now feels the while fall was accidental, Warner’s action was not.” Anthea finished and looked to Broner.

“You informed Moriarty looked pained for the first time and I gave you permission to take him to medical.” Mycroft looked to the agent.

“Yes. Reid called me, and I came down immediately. I did not have all the details yet. Warner was seated floor outside the room waiting. He had left his weapons in the hold while Reid and Singh tended to Moriarty who was still in a catatonic. Moriarty moved freely but showed slight signs of distress. Singh and Reid stated it was the first time there was no resistance. I contacted you, got Moriarty to medical and then began the agent interviews. Warner confessed to his actions. I reprimanded Forrest who assigned the shifts. It was not done in malice, it was Warner’s shift, but Forrest should have spotted the familiar name and at least questioned it to have avoided assigning Malcolm Warner anywhere near Moriarty. Warner was heavily reprimanded for his lack of professionalism and is now out of the country to completely cool off.”

Mycroft gave a grim nod in acceptance of the action. He knew _to cool completely off_ meant the agent was not at a warm and sunny outpost for the next month.

All three looked up when Mycroft’s mobile vibrated with the emergency pulse, he frowned at the caller ID as Broner and Anthea’s mobile also received alerts. Mycroft answered first.

“Washburn, you’re on speaker…”

“Sir. Lord Dodson is dead…”

Mycroft noted the pause in the agent’s voice, “And…?”

“It was Hughes’ turn to do the half hour check on the inmates of that row and discovered Dodson’s body. He yelled for the door to open and for medical. Moriarty apparently was not aware Dodson was on the same row until he heard Hughes react. Moriarty began laughing and then began to ask for you. Sort of…”

“Sort of…?” Mycroft frowned. He knew he was not going to like it.

_I do NOT need this with all else that is going on._

“Going live sir.”

Mycroft rang out and waited for the video call.

Washburn’s footsteps were heard as he walked down the row of holding cells. A low noise was heard in the distance. The agent paused before an open door where Agent Hughes stood. Dodson’s body was seen inside the room hanging from the sheeting turned into a noose. Dr. Whitaker and an assistant, Tobias Gregson, were in the process of getting him down. The low noise was more audible as the agent moved on and walked further to the far end of the hall.

“Is he doing a cheer?” Anthea asked incredulously.

“M-I-K-E-Y! Mikey! Hey Mikey!”

Both Anthea and Broner’s eyes went wide as they understood. They forced their respective faces to remain stoic as they looked to their boss.

Mycroft groaned as he listened, “What _is_ that?”

“His take on a pop song from the 80’s sir.” Washburn answered as he stopped, “do you want visual?”

“No. Not from the door. He’ll be expecting it.” Mycroft looked to Anthea who was already on her mobile as she brought up the feed. “Bang the door once and walk away loudly. That is all.”

“Oh Mikey, it’s so crickey, you’ll soon understand, if you wanna hear from ME, then it’s YOU I gotta see!” Moriarty’s singsong voice could be heard before he abruptly switched to his normal mocking Irish lilt, “Though it wasn’t very _honorable_ of him at all in the end, was it? Hmmm.”

“He’s naked sir, by his choice. Clothing is neatly folded on the bed. He has something in his hand, looks like a shiv aimed at the panel. He’s right there waiting as he _sings_.” Anthea reported and showed Mycroft her mobile screen.

“Fine! Be that way!” Moriarty slammed the flat of his own hand on the door in response when Washburn banged on the door, then switched to singsong again, “I may or may not talk, Mikey! But I _am_ gonna walk, Mikey!”

Mycroft watched as a naked Moriarty tossed the shiv away as he heard Washburn depart. He then placed both hands on the door and did a couple of standing pushups. The feed was small on the mobile, but the bruised body could be seen.

_Even bruised and battered he is quite an attractive man. He’s no Grego…_

_GODDAMMIT!_

“Clearly he’s quite comfortable. Let him cool off for a bit.” Mycroft quickly looked away to Broner then walked away.

“Yes, sir.”

***

“There has been a lot of chatter these past few days.” Love spoke. “Three different scandals in parliament have come to light via anonymous emails to news sources. CAM media is having a veritable field’s day in these scoops.”

“In addition, I have two agents downed. Not killed but incapacitated in such a way that it was obvious it was done with intent.” Porlock added.

“A few of the foreign actions have suddenly fallen through as well. It’s been several days and it’s escalating.” Banner looked to Antarctica, “I’m not sure about the parliament scandals, none affect any of my operations, but everything else dominos something all of us have in play. By the timeline it started a day after _he_ was taken in custody.”

Banner was in his office. Porlock and Love were out of the country on their own respective pursuits. Static was incommunicado on a mission in Asia.

“He has failsafes.” Antarctica said calmly to the view screen of the teleconference, “Surely you understood that was going to be a consequence of his capture? All of us have them.”

“You had him for three days when chatter hinted, he may be missing. And that was a day before you informed us you had him.” Porlock accused, “Regardless theses failsafes are escalating. Going from none of our direct concerns, but closing in. So far nothing we are not able to counteract or quelle, but the shooting, but not killing Q was a warning shot a little too close to home for comfort. M is livid!”

Mycroft was well aware of M’s anger. He spent a solid fifteen minutes being harangued over the welfare of the bespeckled computer genius before he could calm her. Granted she was none too pleased with him when Mycroft hinted that she should perhaps assign a certain 007 to be on Q _literally_. Gossip of the incendiary relationship between the quite deadly agent and the boffin computer genius had reached him. It was a moment’s amusement when she hung up on him.

››TEXT›› 1117: A flick of a button just does not hold the same satisfaction as the slam of a of a good old-fashioned telephone receiver does it, M? – MH

“I suspect it is going to become personal for us if we are reading him correctly. Which is damned near impossible to do with that madman.” Love sniffed.

Mycroft’s mobile pinged; his eyes widened in surprise at the ID.

“Quite true, so I suggest you and your teams stay alert then. Forgive the abrupt dismissal, I must take this call.” Mycroft quickly ended the teleconference, then slowly picked up his mobile.

››TEXT›› 1503: Now it starts to get personal, Mikey – Unknown number.

His burner phone was one thing, but that line. That line, his secure line should _never_ have an unknown caller.

Mycroft picked up his office phone.

“Stephen, gas him, pants him, take him to interview, and let me know when everything is ready.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Secure him?” Broner asked.

“Just one ankle to the secured chair, should suffice. He knows he can’t get out by force. It has always been games of the mind between him, my brother and me. He’s been aching to match wits with me in person and I’ve ignored him. Let’s see how ready he is…” Mycroft answered.

Two hours later Mycroft took a breath and opened the door to the featureless solid gray room.

Moriarty sat with his back to the door, his head lifted slightly at Mycroft’s entrance.

“Hello Mikey. Got my text did you? I thought you’d pay me a call.”

Jim slowly bent down in the seat and purposely put his bruised and mottled back on display.

 _Moriarty has been in my team’s_ care _and it shows._

“Gotta say Mikey. You do have well _mostly_ well-trained dogs. Even your bitches pack a mean one, but they do try to avoid my pretty face. It’s appreciated.” He sat upright again.

Stoic faced, Mycroft gave Broner, who waited outside the door, a nod and stepped aside. Another agent rolled in dinner cart. He moved an empty chair back, placed and locked the cart in place and left. Mycroft entered and closed the door behind him.

As instructed Moriarty was in pants and slippers, nothing else. He sat with his left ankle secured to a metal chair that was bolted to the floor.

Jim leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg at the ankle as though they were having lunch at a café and was about to regale him with a tale over whiskey.

“Do I smell the Aubrey Allen English Ribeye 227g? From Landmark?”

“And the Slow Cooked Moroccan Spiced Lamb, yes. Though I know the food from our cafeteria is quite good, it is nonetheless cafeteria food. I know your pallet is accustomed finer fare and would appreciate the treat. Pick whichever of your choice, I know you like both entrées. I will enjoy the other with you.” Mycroft sat opposite of him and gestured to the meals.

“Fattening the lamb before slaughter?” Moriarty sniffed and lifted the cover to his selection. “Or the last meal?”

“Neither.” Mycroft pulled the other meal closer to him and revealed it. “We have not yet tired of your delightful company.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied him a moment while placing the napkin in his lap.

Mycroft studied the bruising on Moriarty’s torso.

Now I see why Warner was pulled off. That was unfortunate.

“First, let me apologize for my agent’s behavior towards you the other day. It was a failure of the one who handed out the assignments to place him on your detail. Medical informs me your fingers were not severely damaged, the buddy taping was more of a precaution, it will be removed in another day. I presume you are icing it.”

“Real silverware, Mycroft? And bottled wine? You trust me that much? I’m touched!” Moriarty’s voice all but drowned the words in saccharine ignoring him.

 _Oh, I am sure you are_ touched _. Quite so._

“I _trust_ that you know to attack me would be fruitless and frankly a little _disappointing_. And while I’m sure you’d enjoy the moment…” Mycroft poured the wine for both as he spoke, “…you wouldn’t get to enjoy it for long.”

“Just so.” Moriarty gave a vicious little smile at the words knowing their origin, “How is dear Sherly-locks these days and of course the good doctor?”

“You put a war veteran with PTSD in a Semtex vest. How do you think?”

Both men silently acknowledged the part of the question not answered by not acknowledging it.

“Well played with Adler. What was her password? I never figured it out.”

Mycroft noted Moriarty pushed the food around but did not take a bite until after he had a couple. He suppressed his smile as the man’s eyes involuntarily closed in the pleasure of that bite.

It reminded him of how Gregory’s eyes had closed just before the near orgasmic moan released when, after declaring he did not like tiramisu, he was introduced to one done right.

_Oh, Gregory. I do hope you’re happy. That he gets to hear that sound from you._

Mycroft wrenched his thoughts away from the DI back to the man in front of him.

“Honestly, I didn’t know. It was opened and handed it to me. I immediately changed its password while I had access. I did not care.”

“Idle curiosity.” He waved a hand in dismissal, “though I did bemoan the loss.”

“Of Adler or the mobile?”

“Both were merely two of the many tools I have in my employ, but I meant the device.” Moriarty gave a slight eyeroll at the jest, “like most she bored me in the end, though it _was_ fun to watch how she made you Holmes boys _dance_. Speaking of dance, how are things in parliament these days? I imagine at least two seats have opened up. Magnusson is efficient in his machinations, though still I do intend to put a bullet between the smug bastard’s eyes when he’s no longer useful to me.”

_Not if we get to the slime first._

“Unless you get to him first.” Moriarty smirked in near unison of his thought. “Nice to know we that in common.”

The rest of the dinner was a verbal chess game of give and take. Mycroft naturally took everything Moriarty said with a huge grain of salt but stored the information to be parsed later. Once finished Moriarty unlocked the wheel to the meal cart and pushed it out of the way so the two men sat facing each other.

“You do not wish desert?” Mycroft indicated the third, yet unopened tray.

“Perhaps later. I don’t smell anything of interest.” 

Moriarty held onto the serviette, draping it over his crossed knee, not modestly over his crotch. Mycroft found himself pulling on his waistcoat, his three-piece suit extravagance to the other man’s unabashed near nakedness with the slightest hint of stiffness in his moves being the only indication of pain.

“This is the first you’ve come to see me since that first day. I know it was not my loving serenade that inspired you. So! Let’s get down to business.” Moriarty sat back as he clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together with glee. “I’ve been here six days Mikey. You don’t know it yet but starting soon you’ll learn you’ve bitten off more than you can chew keeping me here.” Moriarty casually checked his nails, “Boy! Do I need a _manicure_! Oh, did you enjoy the photo, by the way?”

“What photo?” Mycroft frowned as a sense and of dread began to fill him.

Moriarty spread his knees slowly, suggestively in offering his hands grasped both ankles . The consulting criminal looked down and somehow shifted. Moriarty physically looked the same and yet his entire being was different; softer, feminine.

Moriarty raised and tilted his head coquettishly with an all too familiar wicked smile as he then took the linen serviette and drew it between his legs and across his chest as he sat back up.

Rouged lips, silk sheets and blond hair flashed in Mycroft’s mind.

_NO!_

Mycroft stared at Moriarty as though confused while he mentally reviewed his mind palace to the memory of the master criminal’s back when he entered the room. He had ignored it then, but he studied it now. Yes, the back was covered with black and blue and yellow and purple, but this time Mycroft removed all of that out of the way in his mind’s eye and saw.

_I would recognize that spine almost anywhere now._

He had said that to himself once, and here was the veracity of those words. Still…

It took everything Mycroft had NOT to react as the diva drag queen’s words then purred out of the criminal mastermind’s mouth.

“I believe I drained you dry, my darling. Now be a big boy and swallow some of this for me.”

_ROXIE?!?!?!_

Before Mycroft could think to react Broner suddenly opened the door, Mycroft could deduce the murder in the agent's eyes.

“Agent?!”

The agent bellowed as he put a gun to Moriarty’s head, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“AGENT!” Mycroft stood.

“She was in an accident, Mr. Holmes. A bad one. Anthea’s in a coma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to IantoLives for the chapter title idea. 👍
> 
> Jim annoys Mycroft to the tune of Toni Basil's catchy song from 1981[ "Mickey" https://youtu.be/0aqLwHP4y6Q](https://youtu.be/0aqLwHP4y6Q)


	8. The First Domino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a price to pay to capture Jim Moriarty, Mycroft is getting the first inklings of the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during the beginning of [chapter 7 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58450657)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“NO! That’s NOT one of mine. Too soon!” Moriarty had his hands in sight. 

_I know._

Mycroft in two quick moves stepped back while he pulled the food cart further out of Moriarty’s reach even as he drew his own gun and aimed it.

He aimed it on agent Stephen Broner.

Specifically, on the hand that held the gun. 

“Step away from James Moriarty.” Mycroft’s voice was glacier. “I. Will. Kill. Both of. You.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed at Mycroft’s aim.

_That’s right Moriarty. If he moves wrong, I will shoot at the gun, so you can’t use it against me. Thus, you better pray my aim is as good as I know it is._

Broner blinked at the chilling command but did not heed. “You know?”

“Obviously.”

“Moriarty, if you would be so kind to explain to my now erstwhile agent how I know this? After you _slowly_ toss all the cutlery you sit on to the floor, of course.” Mycroft’s voice lost none of its chill and his gun remained aimed at the agent.

The tiniest smile lifted a corner of Moriarty’s lip as one hand reached under a thigh and tossed a fork.

“I said _all the cutlery_.” Mycroft reiterated not taking his aim from Broner.

Moriarty tossed a dinner knife next to the fork, both near the cart. Secured to the chair as he was, with the cart now out of the way, Mycroft knew he was out of Moriarty’s reach, but Broner’s gun remained within the criminal mastermind’s possible grasp.

“Holmes knows his darling she wolf would be the second to last person I take out. There so many other fun things to do first before I make you watch her _die_. I’ll let you live with the guilt of her death. Let you _suffer_ with it for a while before I kill your precious baby brother, Mycroft. And then I will let you suffer with that loss as the clock tick-tocks, tick-tocks, tick-tocks before I finally get bored enough and kill you.” Seemingly oblivious to the gun barrel against his cranium, Moriarty looked to Broner and shark-smiled at the man, “Oh, but now it looks I could have added a new third to last on my list. Tell me, Stephen, was it really that nice between that viper’s creamy looking thighs? I’ve heard you fucked everything that moved, and yet gave it up to just fuck the bitch, but I didn’t realize it was _love_. I wouldn’t have needed your charming little niece… Anthea must really be something in bed! Do you know whether Mikey has had the pleasure? I think he can tell you the flavor… Tell me, Mikey, is it? That nice? I bet she pegs like a dream…”

“Enough!” Mycroft snarled.

The calmness Moriarty showed to Broner evaporated as he looked to Mycroft. 

“Fine, but know this Mycroft: if she dies now, I promise you I WILL find the ones responsible and skinnnnnn them for taking that pleasure away from ME!” Moriarty hissed. 

“Aww, you do care, Jim. I’m honored. And yes, what’s between the creamy thighs of this viper is _phenomenal_.”

Anthea always had the ability to walk on cat’s paws, even in her preferred stilettos, when she chose. It was a skill she used now as Anthea placed the barrel of her own gun against the back of Broner’s head with one hand and took the gun aimed at Moriarty with the other. “Back up Stephen...”

Broner’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“You never knew it, Stephen, but the moment you became second tier, security was placed around your family for this reason. We knew that family was your one pressure point. We know your fifteen-year-old niece, from your second youngest sister, is being held hostage in an abandoned office not far from the quay in Leeds. Moriarty’s men were replaced with ours within an hour of her capture. We would not let her go home, but she was and is not in any harm.”

“That is the failure of free-lancing expendable local thugs for such. Your people kept them alive for the daily visual check-ins required with that team, good. Good.” Moriarty switched gears again and grinned even wider as he gave only the slightest shrug at the revelation of the failed plans. “Nicely played, Iceman. If I thought I was faster than your bullet, I would have gone for it.” 

“I know.” Mycroft stated calmly.

“We wanted to see what you would do, Stephen and you _failed_. You set me up to be in an actual accident designed to draw him away from the building. You failed _me_. No under tier would have countermanded your leaving with Moriarty in our absence. You failed _your country_. More important, for the past three days when you did not come to him, you failed _Mycroft_.”

Anthea’s voice behind Broner was as soft as the guns she held against the agent’s head was hard. It was no less deadly sounding for it.

Broner blinked at Anthea’s use of his first name. Mycroft himself was not surprised. She only used it when it was important.

“Well!” Moriarty clapped his hands together once and looked from Anthea to Broner to Mycroft. “This has turned into quite the _lovely_ domestic. Whatever to do?”

_Were Anthea truly hurt, I would have known before you. I know of your feelings for her, regardless and yet you purposely put a gun within reach of Jim Moriarty. The ruse deplorable. The betrayal unforgivable._

“She was in the car. I _saw_ her get in. There really was an accident?” Broner asked though it really was not a question and Mycroft knew it.

“Yes. And the doppelganger agent is really is in a coma. An agent whose loyalty is stronger than yours.” Mycroft stepped back further and gave Anthea a single nod. “Your choice.”

Broner never had a chance to react as Anthea pulled both triggers.

"Fuck!" Moriarty flinched as some of former agent Stephen Broner landed on him.

“Apologies for the mess, Jim.” Anthea said sweetly, her guns now trained on the master criminal as Mycroft calmly walked around him. Once he had safely passed, she holstered her own gun and tucked Broner’s firearm into the waist at the back of her skirt until she can turn it in to the armory.

“Moriarty...” Mycroft stopped at the door and half-turned. He waited until Moriarty lifted his head slightly to listen.

“While I do sometimes condone the threat of rape; it is a useful tool, I have _never_ condoned use of the actual deed. It was the consensus of all who witnessed the event, that it would have happened were he not stopped. I saw the footage. I know you - disassociated. It should have _never_ come to that. If your men can find him, you can have him. I will _not_ have that working for me.”

“As I said, _mostly_ well-behaved dogs,” Moriarty did not face him, but gave a slight incline of his head in acknowledgement of the words, “But Mycroft…?”

“Yes?”

“You saw the text. It’s Day 6, Mikey…”

Mycroft did not acknowledge the implied threat in Moriarty’s words as he crossed the threshold. Anthea closed the door on Moriarty and former agent Stephen Broner.

“I’ll have the team in Leeds get the niece safely home and neutralize the kidnappers. Nothing there we can use.” Anthea pulled out her mobile and started typing.

“You’ll have extra work again.” Mycroft noted her handling items that Broner would have handled.

“Six years just blown away. Literally.” Anthea sighed as she paused for a moment, then shrugged, “Nothing I haven’t handled on my own before. I will handle it again. You have your 730pm at the Diogenes office. Do you wish to reschedule?”

Mycroft raised a slight brow at the woman.

_Oh, Dr. Frankenstein, meet your monster._

Mycroft took out his pocket watch, “No, I’ll head for Diogenes now. Some discussions need to be had away from Whitechapel’s notice. Have _the unit_ meet in the morning so they are not individually contacting me and I must repeat myself unnecessarily.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have the car readied for you.”

Mycroft looked to the agent at the door who stood very straight and most definitely _not_ looking at either of them, as he awaited instructions.

“Agent Leal, have our guest cleaned before he’s returned to his cell.”

“And have the appropriate team clean _that_ up.”

“Ma’am. Sir.” Agent Leal nodded eyes still straight ahead.

***** 

“I assure you; everything is well in hand. The location of the facility was chosen because though it looks non-descript enough from the outside, the building is very secure. Since my uncle first selected the site, the Diogenes Club has spent nearly forty years being untouched. Many a dignitary enjoy its peaceful atmosphere. There is nothing to worry about… I utilize the facility often myself… Excellent selling point indeed, I agree... And that is even better news. Yes, it is a pleasure doing business with someone who understands the finer points of these things. The club looks forward to receiving your official application.” Mycroft’s eyes rolled hard as he rang out on the call.

He inwardly sighed as he and a retired ambassador approached the foyer of the Diogenes club at the same time. It is the only place besides Mycroft’s office and the Strangers’ Room where one can speak in the building, though most of the club’s clientele extended that code of silence to the foyer as well.

_Most._

“Ah Holmes, calling it an evening while the summer sun is still with us?”

Mycroft gave the former ambassador something approximating a smile to the irritating old man. He gave a more genuine one to Jaymes, the concierge.

Leonard Jaymes, a former SAS agent during his uncle’s tenure, has served for most of the club’s existence. He had recently announced his plans to retire and was in the process of interviewing his replacement to serve on the rotation of concierges. His choices must be approved by the other concierges with final decision and vetting left to Mycroft. Jaymes was the most senior of them, already the managing concierge the day Mycroft had become the youngest member of the club himself in his early twenties. His uncle had introduced them.

“Watch out for my nephew, Jaymes. He’s going to be something else.”

The surprisingly spry septuagenarian quickly circled around the front desk to open the door and hold it for them as he spoke to Mycroft.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! Yancy has returned from holiday with his family and has given his approval. The list of candidates will be availa…”

A small red hole suddenly appeared in the center of Leonard Jaymes’ forehead. Something considerably larger appeared in the back.

“Good Lord!” The former ambassador exclaimed in shock.

Momentarily frozen in his own state of shock at the sudden crimson sight before him, it was the thud of the bullet as it sank into the solid mahogany door behind the dead man that just as quickly unfroze him as he looked out into the seemingly empty skies around the building.

“Sniper!” Mycroft grabbed both the former ambassador and Jaymes, whose body slid down the door with a ghastly trail. He pulled them into the foyer and slammed the door shut.

That was a mistake.

 _No one_ slammed a door at the Diogenes Club.

The sound brought those closest to the foyer running. Their reactions brought the rest.

Mycroft counted his blessings it was evening meal time. Most had left for the night to dine elsewhere and go home or wherever. It was a club, not a hotel. Though Mycroft had 24-hour access, and a concierge was always present, the club itself officially closed its doors at 2100. It was after a little after 8pm. Only a few stragglers like the former ambassador remained on the premises.

Somewhere in the din he heard the distinct voice of Marsh, the other concierge on duty, as he placed the call to Anthea per protocol.

It was a solid minute of voices yelling over one another in accusation and panic.

It was enough time for Mycroft to have calculated the trajectory and the near impossibility of the distance from the only location such a shot could have come.

There were dozens of snipers who dreamed of the ability of that shot.

There are less than a handful of snipers who would have thought about that shot.

There were perhaps three snipers who would have attempted that shot.

But Mycroft knew there were only two snipers who would have been successful, one of whom he knew for certain was in another country.

That left only one sniper capable of that shot.

_God damnit! Moriarty has Sebastian Moran. Probably already had him in his employ before I ever laid eyes on him at the club._

Moriarty’s warning surfaced in his mind:

  * “You saw the text. It’s Day 6, Mikey…”



Mycroft remembered the fateful night he first walked into the Queen’s Hidden Lounge against his better judgement

  * The night of the Queen theme night when he refused to look at her face
  * The glass he held in his hand and then let it go
  * _A drag queen and a mercenary._



_I could have had Jim Moriarty in custody WEEKS ago!_

Mycroft could all but hear Fate, Karma and Universe cackling at his expense.

“SILENCE!” Mycroft finally snapped at the voices around and within him.

In the immediate shocked quiet that followed, he spoke again.

“You are all safe. It was a message directly for me. The split-second timing of this leaves me no other deduction. You cannot leave from this entrance; it needs to be processed. Have your respective drivers meet you at the side entrance.” Mycroft spoke with considerably more calm than he felt. 

Voices rose anew as mobiles that were not already on, turned on as the stragglers followed orders.

“And gentlemen?” Heedless of the blood and gore, Mycroft knelt on the floor next to Jamyes. “You were _never_ here tonight.”

Mycroft did not look to see whether or not there were confirmations. He understood they were all dignitaries who did not want their safe haven disturbed.

Mycroft felt his mobile vibrate. He recognized the pattern.

_Gregory._

He remembered the text from earlier.

_››TEXT›› 1503: Now it starts to get personal, Mikey – Unknown number_

Without looking at the device he reached in his pocket, declined the call and placed one instead.

“On my way, sir.” Anthea answered without preamble, “I’m sorry. I know you…”

“I know.” He cut her off, “Anthea, brace yourself, and upgrade surveillance status for all parties - Grade Two: Active.”

“Including…?”

He heard the hesitation, they never spoke about it, but he is only mildly surprised she asked, only Sherlock knows him better. She needed to know his priorities.

Even the unspoken ones.

“Especially…” he sighed.

“Yes, sir.”

He rang out from her and looked at his mobile.

>> Missed call: G. Lestrade.

_››TEXT›› 1503: Now it starts to get personal, Mikey – Unknown number_

_You can’t be anywhere near me now. I’m sorry._

He pocketed his mobile and took the hand of the man who far too many years ago once shook his hand and welcomed him to the club on his first day. Now Mycroft Holmes said his good-byes to Jaymes Leonard on the man’s last day.


	9. Cascade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft starts to feel it as Moriarty's dominos fall...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [chapter 7 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58450657)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“Hello Big Bro.”

_Oh, dear Lord, I am being sorely tested today, am I not?_

Despite Anthea’s warning he had entered the building, Mycroft inwardly groaned as his baby brother sauntered into his office and draped his long limbs sideways over an armchair.

Since half seven it had been back-to-back rounds of impatiently rehash the past few days that included the attempted murder and then successful suicide of Dodson, the killing his own staff member and the attack at Diogenes.

Granted Mycroft did enjoy rubbing Porlock’s face in the loss of Sebastian Moran. It was his team that let the Army discharge the skilled sniper publicly but did not pick him privately. The sniper skills that were now being used against their interests. There was a question whether it was one of Moriarty's failsafes that emailed photos of his newborn grandson to Sir Edwin or some other faction, some questioned that delivery of the grandiflora, known as the _love rose,_ whose blooms dripped with the blood of one of her missing agents to Smallword's doorstep was his. All agreed that it could have been no one but former Colonel Sebastian Moran at Diogenes. 

He was a Picasso in the Art of the Kill that they treated and discarded like kindergartner scribblings on a refrigerator.

And all of this was on top of the shake-up at parliament and other scandals that sent stocks into a tailspin and the normal business with Ultra. After dealing with the loss of Leonard Jaymes, he learned Moriarty was once more back in medical, due to an unexpected reaction to God only knows what. Mycroft suspected foul play and that had its top two suspects within Ultra, the only ones who would have had access. Worse Moriarty was not speaking on what happened once out of medical other than to taunt him.

“So? How IS Sherlock? I do hope you increased security. Give my boys _something_ of a challenge. Day 8 Mycroft.”

Mycroft wondered if the Ultra unit will again decrease by one and soon. All he knew for sure was that it would not be him.

_Yet._

Suffice it to say Mycroft was drained. He was on his second dose of migraine meds and it was barely half past ten. He most certainly was not in the mood for his brother’s theatrics.

“ _What_ do you want Sherlock?” Mycroft asked tiredly.

“No, how are doing? No glad I’m alive?” Sherlock teased.

_What are you talking about?_

“Tell me, Brother Mine: how does a SAS trained agent suddenly find himself the victim of not just a mugging, but a knifing? Yesterday, I was at a crime scene. Someone set off a shot that that killed a guard less than three meters away from me and had me and about half the MET ducking behind police cars. Have I truly fallen so far out of your favor that my security has grown lax?”

“I knew about him, obviously. Forensics thought it was friendly fire, until they learned the bullet was from the firearm stolen from the guard who was mugged.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as patterns fell into place.

_››TEXT›› 1503: Now it starts to get personal, Mikey – Unknown number_

Sherlock’s security has tripled. Still someone was getting close, too close, slowly targeting the detail close to Sherlock, but not touching Sherlock himself.

_But for how long?_

“Exactly.” Sherlock responded having all but read the thought.

“Why are John and I suddenly _infested_ with security that is about as bungling as Keystone Cops? Even John has noticed them while on surgery shift. What have you done?”

Mycroft knew the average person would not have seen the minute change in his expression. Sherlock Holmes is not the average person. The consulting detective quickly sat up properly and looked at Mycroft dead-on, in all seriousness, as he deduced him.

“It’s Moriarty.” Sherlock sat back in the chair, his eyes full of thought as he raised his hands into the prayer position in front of his lips, “What have you done?”

“Removed the most dangerous man in the UK off the streets of London.” Mycroft answered.

“Jim Moriarty is a Hydra. Did you take all the other heads with it? Of course, not Mr. _You Know I’m The Smart One_. Your people would tear his organization apart root and stem at your disappearance. Did your massive ego not think his people would retaliate in kind? I know about Diogenes, Mycroft. This is some sort of failsafe, isn’t it?” Sherlock glared at him, “What. Have. You. Done?”

“I am…” Mycroft started to speak, but he knew Sherlock could hear the subterfuge coming and his brother raised a hand.

“Stop. I know him, Mycroft. This will get worse. Either kill him and be done with it or release him before his failsafes eventually get to John and me.”

“I am handling it!”

“Handling it?!” Sherlock looked at him incredulously, “Three of the guards assigned to me are impaired or _dead_! You’re _handling it_?!”

_Thank God he does not know about the missing one from Baker Street yet._

“I know you don’t care about Watson,” Sherlock unexpectedly rose and headed for the door, “but I do hope you have this _handled_ before John or I are shot.”

He jerked the door open and spotted Anthea as she rose from her desk. Sherlock’s voice dropped as he turned his head slightly to Mycroft, but would not look at him, his normally mellifluous baritone a soft whisper, “or someone more important to you.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft rose from his seat completely aghast that Sherlock would think such a thing let alone say it.

The curly haired genius walked out and softly closed the door behind him.

That soft close was more damning than anything his brother could have slammed.

_There is no one more important to me. Surely this is hyperbole! He must know this. He must!_

Mycroft choked down the image of a certain silver haired detective inspector that ghosted his mind and the stranger on the motorcycle.

_He is not mine. He belongs to another. All I can do is try to keep him alive._

He still stood at his desk when Anthea walked into the office a minute later. He knew it was bad when he saw her face.

“Tell me…”

“It’s about the security guard that was on detail behind Baker Street who did not check in early this morning…”

_He’s dead. We knew this._

Mycroft raised a brow for Anthea to go on.

“Bloodied water trailed to front and the detail there followed it back to the source where his body was found. By the small amount of blood found at Baker Street he was hurt there and then transported up country to bleed out in a ditch. The killer’s affect was not meant to be subtle.”

_Up country? A ditch? No. Oh God no!_

A sense of dread chilled Mycroft to his bones. “My parents’ house. He did this at _my parents’ house?!_ ”

Anthea looked apologetic as she dropped the final salvo.

“I was told, and I quote: _Little girl, short of my son sitting in Lizzie’s lap giving her the best cunnilingus of her life, put him on the line NOW!”_

Mycroft groaned painfully as he fell into his chair, his head in his hands.

“She’s waiting on Line 1.” Anthea closed the door as she left him to his misery.

Mummy was brilliant, but she was also a bit of a flake. The conversation could go either way and Mycroft was not sure which he would get, only that either would be painful.

It turned out to be both:

  * “Blood is good for a lot of my plants, Mycroft, but having dead people in my garden is not. It’s my prize-winning hydrangeas!”
  * “And all those guards trampling all over my garden! That ditch was dug in to drain water away from the hydrangeas and that body is blocking it!”
  * “And your father is NONE too happy with you, young man!
  * “That's a message if I ever saw one! Who's doing this? Why haven't you caught them yet?”
  * “Oh! The neighbors! And…and the FLIES!”
  * “I overheard one of the guards say the dead man was one of Sherlock's guards Mycroft! He’s your little brother! You're supposed to look after him! Not let one of his guard get dragged all the way up here and killed? Or was it the other way ‘round?”
  * “Let me tell you, after six years in a row of winning, if I lose the blue ribbon to that loathsome Beatrice Henry, because your shenanigans threw my PH balance off, you can forget about my figgy pudding come Christmas, young man!”



With little more than contrite grunts and a well-placed “Yes, Mummy” here and there as vocal engagement, Mycroft was ever so grateful when the woman rang out on him at last. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. He did not try to suppress his moan.

_And it’s still too soon for my next dosage of meds…_

*****

Mycroft Holmes did something rare.

Something he had not done since it was once his job to do.

He entered the room amid an active session.

_Nonchalance, Mycroft. Complete nonchalance. Do NOT let them see you crack._

He waved his hand for silence and for Cox and Washburn to continue as he stood there.

His clenched fists in his trouser pockets was the only sign of his distress, but none of the agents working in the room noticed. They only saw the cool façade Mycroft ever showed the world.

With eyes slightly narrowed, Mycroft Holmes stood out of splash range.

And he watched.

Watched as Moriarty threatened.

Watched as Moriarty yelled.

Watched as Moriarty cursed.

Watched as Moriarty _screamed_.

Visuals of the bloodied ditch from photos taken outside his parents’ home replayed in Mycroft’s mind.

And he watched.

When the session should have ended, Mycroft silently signaled for it to continue.

Not knowing he was in the room but having sensed the session was longer than usual, and the reason why, Moriarty cursed Mycroft and everyone around him.

Anthea silently entered the room a short time later and gently touched his shoulder. Mycroft would not look at her.

She _never_ entered an interrogation in progress anymore, for the same reasons as he. He knew why she was there now.

_He crossed a line. I do not care._

Mycroft set his jaw and watched a while longer.

“Stop.” He said at last.

He felt Anthea’s eyes on him and finally turned his head to look at her.

He knew she assessed him, and he let her.

_No. No, I am not going to kill him, but yes… it... it was… close._

Satisfied with what she saw, Anthea quickly, if not silently this time, left the room.

Cox retrieved the towels and fresh clothes from the table.

Singh was in position, gun at the ready as Washburn brought Moriarty up to a standing position and began to undo the restraints at Mycroft’s nod.

Naked, wet, his body was a near Venn diagram of what was done and when in the myriad contusions that colored his body. It took a moment for Moriarty to register it was over when he lifted his head and saw Mycroft.

The change was instantaneous.

“Like what you see?” the familiar fire blazed in those dark eyes as they bore into his. “Like your meat _tenderized_ first?”

“You crossed a line Moriarty.”

“Oh? Did Geneva change their conventions?” Moriarty snatched a towel from Cox and began to dry himself carefully. “If I crossed a line, then you turbo jetted over it, Holmes.”

“I crossed a line,” Moriarty muttered more to himself, then looked to Mycroft and yelled, “That is what I DO!”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the yell that drove a spike into his migraine, but did not otherwise acknowledge it.

_God damn his soul. What does it take to break him?!_

“Oh, you look about ready to wet yourself, Mikey. Did my boys scare you that much? And it’s still only Day 9? Tsk!” his voice was hoarse, but the irritating singsong tease came through, nonetheless. “You know what I want, Mikey.”

Moriarty leaned back against the board. Mycroft understood only he and Jim knew that Moriarty’s oh-so-casual looking lean was because he had to, not because he wanted to. And knowing that Mycroft saw the weakness that irritated the criminal more.

Mycroft had never seen Moriarty look… _frail_.

_I cannot let my walls crack either, Jim._

“And you know what I want.” Mycroft shrugged slightly with a lot more casualness than he felt as he turned to leave, “Take him to medical; make sure he’s well enough for the next sessions.”

“If you’re scared now, _I can’t WAIT_ to see your reaction to what’s coming down the pike. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…”

Visuals of the bloodied ditch replayed in Mycroft’s mind again as Moriarty’s singsong voice followed him out of the room.

He made it all the way to the ensuite of his office before he lost the lunch he never ate.

Head still pounding from the migraine that never quite went away he leaned it against the cool porcelain and pulled out his mobile.

“I know you do not wish to hear from me, but… We need to converse. I… I… I need your help… Please…”


	10. And You Come Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's past crashes with his present when another domino falls and the pattern revealed is a bit not good for the Iceman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [chapter 7 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58450657)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

Mycroft had not moved from where he sat in the ensuite when his brother arrived.

“How close was it?” he heard Sherlock as Anthea.

“Very. I… I couldn’t stay there. I lasted long enough to ensure he stopped before anything…worse…happened.”

“Where is Moriarty now?” 

“Mycroft had him sent to medical.”

“My brother has not left this building since his arrival has he? Have you?”

Mycroft had not heard her response, but he knew that was a negative answer to both questions.

He did not hear his brother approach. He barely acknowledged the strong arms that hoisted him to standing and then gave him a cool glass of water. He drank it by habit and belated realized by the putrid taste of the remains of his own bile that flavored the water was that he was supposed to rinse his mouth with the water first not drink it and was the reason for the alarmed rise of his brother’s brows. The surprise of it enough to snap him a little more into the present. Sherlock gave a short nod seeing he understood that and gestured to the exit.

“You should have called me before today, Anthea.” Sherlock chastised the woman.

“He was overstressed, but it was understandable. I never imagined he would ever go in during an active interrogation session.” Anthea held out Mycroft’s attaché for Sherlock to take. “Then again we never thought Moriarty would threaten your parents….” Sherlock’s hand paused and Anthea realized he did not know, “Shite!”

There was a tense moment before Sherlock spoke again, his voice lowered to dangerous levels. “Is that information in here?”

Anthea did not lower her eyes, but there was a controlled submissive deference given to the younger brother as she slowly nodded, and Sherlock took the attaché from a grasp that nearly trembled.

Mycroft was not the only one stressed to, if not already beyond, the limit, so was Anthea and it had begun to show, but wrapped in his own stress, Mycroft was not fully cognizant of such at the moment.

“I’m taking him out of here. My brother is on blackout for the next twenty-four hours, forty-eight if I deem it necessary. I would suggest you do the same, but I know you must stay in contact. Lie to whomever you need to for the arrangement then get out of here. Do the rest from your home, that was _not_ a request, Anthea.”

There were times when one looked at Sherlock and fully understood that the younger brother Holmes brother could be as much of an Iceman as the elder in his determination. This was such a time.

“Understood.” Anthea visibly swallowed and nodded again. Sherlock left her to it as he guided a still silent Mycroft out of the building.

Mycroft was physically present for all of this.

Physically.

For the moment Mycroft moved by rote. Mycroft spoke by rote.

But Mycroft was not with them anymore.

It is only much later in the evening, when his searched his mind for the memory, that he recalled any it at all.

Mycroft sometimes told people he forgot things.

That is not true. He did not have his brother’s gift to delete things.

Therefore, Mycroft Holmes forgets _nothing_.

He buried things, most people cluttered their minds with, as inconsequential, but any of it could be reached with a little digging.

Other things, the really bad things, he buried deep in his mind and kept a tight control so that they remain buried and erased, as best he could, the road to those buried things, but he knows the devil scratches at them.

And every now and then that control is stretched to its limit and fails.

Memories resurfaced; wounds re-opened via the demons scratching from beneath and his have been scratching for a very long time.

The stress of the past couple of weeks have taken their toll. With all of his defenses shot to smithereens there was nothing to stop him from going into the absolute worse place he could have gone: deep into own mind.

Mycroft Holmes spiraled down into hole opened by long buried memories brought to the surface anew.

Mycroft did not know when the dam broke.

He did not know when he stopped seeing London, but foreign soil.

He did not know that the tall looming presence that attempted to hold him in comfort was his brother, he was being restrained by the enemy.

When he finally came to any semblance of himself, he wakes to find he is in nothing but pants, his body curled around a damp pillow on his brother’s bed at Baker’s street.

He is only vaguely aware that time has passed when he added to that dampness.

He is aware that the tall looming figure that silently rose from the floor by the bed to quietly sit on its edge beside him with a silent hand on his shoulder that slowly gave him the strength he still lacked belonged to his baby brother.

****

“I cannot just kill him and be done with it, Sherlock.”

Much later that afternoon, Mycroft walked out of the bedroom, showered and dressed in a suit Sherlock had Anthea send over, and sat by the shared desk. He gave an annoyed sigh at the sight of his opened attaché as Sherlock stood by the sofa sifting through photos and reports with a furrowed brow.

Mycroft then shook his head with fondness..

_He did not open it before now? Even while I slept, he sat on the bedroom floor and tended to me the entire time!_

“And I _will not_ live a stilted life in fear of his revenge.” Sherlock said as he stood pining items to the wall above the sofa.

“Moriarty does not do revenge. However, _accidents_ do tend to happen. A lot.” Mycroft quipped, “Besides you would not live a stilted life even if I begged you to…”

“Are you… _begging me_?” Sherlock looked to him surprised.

“I would not engage in what I know would be a waste of my breath.”

“So, what are you here to _engage_?” Sherlock turned back to the wall.

Mycroft was about to speak when the downstairs door opened immediately followed by the footsteps of Doctor John Watson.

“Please tell me you do have NOT got anything untoward in the fridge. I’m meeting up with Murphy later, but I’m starving right now and don’t want to see anything not edible.” John’s voice was heard before his body appeared on the landing and he stepped into the room, “Oh, hello Mycroft.”

The doctor gave Mycroft a visual once over and frowned. Mycroft, for once, did not try to hide how out of sorts he was, which he was aware in and of itself, was alarming. He could plainly see Watson wanted to ask questions, but Sherlock never gave him a chance.

“If you’ve become a cannibal, you’re in luck – fresh vittles from Bart’s as of this morning. Haven’t had time to begin experiments, the liver should be good. Otherwise don’t bother looking, just order in.” Sherlock snarked at John, “You should have been home two hours ago.”

“If you answered your phone…” John walked over to where Sherlock had his mobile on the charger and showed him the missed calls, “…instead of seeing my name and declining my calls you would have bloody known there was a typhoid scare at St. Bart’s this afternoon!”

“What?” both Sherlock and Mycroft looked to the doctor.

“Yes, a guy found dead next to a broken vial in one of the labs where we they keep such strains under serious lock and key. And this one was a nasty bugger. I was in the morgue with Molly Hooper asking about the Piedmont murder when the whole place went on lockdown. You know there’s no reception down in there.” John, glutton for punishment that he is, opened the refrigerator, stared for a few seconds and closed the door with an expression that all but said _why, dear God, did I just do that?_ “I stayed with her until they gave the all clear. Molly said she was lucky, had this been 24 hours earlier she might have been the one in that lab. As it was, from the way they described it, it sounded like one of your spooks Mycroft. Scary stuf… what the...?”

All three men stopped at the sounds of the sudden commotion out on Baker Street. John ran to the window by the fireplace, Mycroft and Sherlock went to the window by the sofa.

People were running pell-mell on the sidewalk and in the street itself. It looked like a mashup between twirling dervish and someone performing a disjointed version of the Thriller dance at high speed. All due to the truck that crashed into a lamppost at the end of the block when a tire blew and upon whose flatbed were now a several broken frames that housed…

“Bees!”

Sherlock gasped excitedly then with dawning fear as he watched the ensuing chaos outside, “Oh god, the bees! Mycroft what are your idios people doing? Look at them running about! They are scaring the bees, I’ve got to… “

“Shots!” / “Get down, Sherlock!” / “MYCROFT!”

All three men yelled near simultaneously as Mycroft yanked Sherlock’s suit lapel and unceremoniously threw the man to the floor and shielded him with his own body when he and John immediately dropped to the floor at the sound of the gun shots and brandished heir own weapons.

“Myco...” Sherlock said softly, surprised with the speed in which his brother took him down. For a moment, vulnerable in the face of Mycroft’s care even now.

“And I you, Brother Mine.” Mycroft whispered in return to the unspoken warmth and love breathed in that rarely used diminutive of his name before Sherlock had learned to pronounce it properly. It occasionally slipped out when Sherlock was especially moved emotionally.

The moment was far too brief as another shot rang out and Sherlock shoved at him, “Get OFF me! I’ve got to help rescue the bees!”

“Are they shooting at the BEES?!?!?!” John asked incredulously as he put his weapon away and scooted from the window.

“John, in the back of your cupboard, get my smudge pots, I’m going downstairs!” Sherlock gracefully rolled out from under Mycroft as soon as he had clearance.

John rose and was halfway up the stairs before he stopped to ask, “Why are smudge pots in MY cupboard?”

“Well, I’m not storing them in the cupboard, with MY suits! John hurry! The BEES!” Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs.

Nearly two hours, two civilians and three of Sherlock’s guards, all five of whom turned out to be very allergic to their multiple bee stings, several smoking smudge pots, police and news media adding to the insanity later, Sherlock, in the thick of it, managed to assist the bee keeper in getting a good portion of the bees safely settled onto the fixed frames for transport once the wheel be changed. He sat in his chair as John ensured all stingers were out, iced the swellings and applied ointment to alleviate the itch.

“That was NOT an accident.” Sherlock announced as he looked dismayed at the dead bee he held in his hand. “I’m sorry you paid the price for human revenge and stupidity.”

“I was afraid of that.” Mycroft sighed as he rang out on his mobile and arranged to have the all of the detail on shift involved in the mayhem at Baker Street replaced.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“The bees seemed inordinately attracted to your guards.” Mycroft admitted.

“I think they were somehow sprayed with sorghum. You’ve seen videos of men with a ‘bee beard’. It’s what some use to attract bees that way.” Sherlock stood made a note and attached it to the wall.

“Christ! Bees, typhoid, that frog guy on the wall…”

“What frog guy?”

“Him, with his tongue out like that; see the fly the near it? He kind of looks like a frog…” John pointed to the photo and then blinked as he really looked at the photos on the wall. “Is this a new case? Is someone targeting your spooks, Mycroft? I wonder if the killer has seen Dr.Phibes.” John said thoughtfully.

“Dr. Phibes?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft knew John was about to say something untoward but changed his mind. “You are being seriously plagued!”

“Plagued?” Mycroft looked up.

It was one of the few times Watson realized he had one up on not just one, but both Holmes brothers and enjoyed it.

“I know you and your truly over there are atheists, but you can’t POSSIBLY be that religiously dense! Hello?? The Plagues of Egypt?!” the doctor gesticulated wildly as he looked up at his brother in disbelief.

It was a move so much like Sherlock’s Mycroft bit his lip at the doctor's unintended imitation.

_The sincerest form of flattery indeed._

Mycroft knew that tone, with the adrenaline out of his body Watson was working himself up into a rather nice row. Now that John has said the word, he himself saw the pattern.

_And I am an idiot for not having seen it sooner. Now I know what Sherlock meant by conductor of light._

“John…” Sherlock pointed at Mycroft.

“Are you kidding? All that’s missing is turning water to blo…” John stopped and blinked when Mycroft wordlessly held up the photo of the bloodied ditch at their parents’ house. The one with the clear water behind the body of the dead agent and the bloodied water trailing in front of him, that Sherlock had not pinned to the wall yet. “Oh… bloody hell!”

It was Mycroft who went to the wall above the sofa and rearranged the photos in two rows.

One row of images was in order of date of occurrence, the other in biblical order. 

“Oh Fuck, that’s a bit not good. I can’t remember the order offhand; I take it you know what’s next?” John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft.

With a dawning sense of horror, Mycroft knew.

_Livestock._

Sherlock looked to him as well as it dawned on him. “You’re going to have to…”

“I know…” Mycroft sighed, “I have no idea how he or his people would accomplish what’s next, but he’s clearly upped the ante by making this public. I am terrified, by just how public this could be taken.”

Mycroft out of habit reached in his pocket for his mobile and looked at the screen, just as he realized the pattern.

››TEXT›› 2007: Sorry to bother you, but neither John nor Sherlock are answering their mobiles. I just heard about the bees. Do you know if they are alright? Should I pop by? – GL

››TEXT›› 2008: Hearing from you is never a bother, Gregory. John and Sherlock are a bit stung, but otherwise fine. I am at Baker Street with them. Do ‘pop by’ – MH

Mycroft had responded and pressed Send before he realized it.

››TEXT›› 2009: I mean, stop by, if you want to. That was not an order or suggest anything of the sort. Only if you want to. – MH

_Congratulations Mycroft, you are babbling via text._

“Good news?” John asked, “You look pleased.”

_Do I? Is that what a mere text from the man, one that does not even concern me, does?_

Mycroft leveled his face to its usual cool detachment even as he admitted to himself the answer was unequivocally _Yes_.

››TEXT›› 2011: I will in the morning then. If you’re there, then I know he’s fine, they both are. And a reminder just for you - don’t be such a stranger. – GL

“Apparently, both of your mobiles are on silent, so he has texted mine. The bees have made the news and Inspector Lestrade has inquired about your well-being.”

“My mobile’s upstairs being charged; it must be on silent. Shit Greg – Murphy! A mate of Greg’s whose mate from the military recently committed suicide and he’s having a time of it. Greg’s a cop and gets it but figured as another military man I might be a good ear. Fuck! It’s after 8 o’clock, I have to go!” John hurried out of the sitting room and up the stairs to his room to retrieve the device.

“The three missed calls, earlier, from John. Now two calls from Molly and a call and text from Lestrade. I had put my mobile on silent to not disturb…you.” Sherlock retrieved his own mobile from the charger, “You’re usually a light sleeper, I did not want the vibrations to startle you.”

“Off out! Meeting Murphy, I’ll send him your love, Sherlock!” John announced as he passed the landing and headed out.

“Murphy?” Mycroft asked amused at the look of disgust on his brother’s face at John’s words.

“Not important.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, “What IS important is Moriarty. What are you going to do?”

“Have a talk with medical. The man I saw in interrogation, looked much worse off than the records would indicate.” Mycroft sighed and took a seat. “It can’t wait a 24-hour black out, Sherlock. I need to know why that is.”

Sherlock stopped and looked at him, observed him. He was not happy with what he saw, but he could not deny the urgency.

“And then what?” Sherlock asked handing him the photographs from the coffee table that did not make it to the wall.

Mycroft knew it was acceptance, but not approval, that he had to go back to work. 

“You know what.” Mycroft organized the photos and placed them back in his attaché. He pulled out his mobile and speed dialed Anthea again, “I want to see Whitaker and Gregson in the morning, separately… No, it’s not a good idea, but I do as needs must… My brother does not like it, but there’s been a…development. He understands the necessity of my going in. Enough seeds are planted. We just have to wait to see what fruit it bears. Stay home, I will speak with you in the morning, Anthea.”

Mycroft watched as Sherlock glanced around the sitting room checking that everything was settled before he put on his suit jacket.

_He’ll let me go home, but he will not let be there alone. Not tonight. Not on a Danger Night of my own. Tonight, we reverse roles._

Mycroft silently placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm in acceptance of the reversal.

The mad genius startled for a moment at the touch, before he understood it for what it was. He placed his hand atop Mycroft’s for a moment and echoed the words from earlier, “And I you, Brother Mine.”

“It’s going to be poisoned.” Sherlock picked up his keys as they headed for the stairs.

Mycroft understood Sherlock referred to the fruit yet to be bear.

“Do villains have any other kind?”

***** 

Mycroft looked at the medical reports on his desk, particularly the most recent. 

Mycroft replayed in his mind how James Moriarty looked before he realized the waterboarding was over, before he knew Mycroft was in the room and turned the act on.

But he had seen what Dr. Gregson saw: Moriarty was not fine. He instinctively knew Moriarty was not fine, because HE had not been fine when it happened to him all those years ago.

Mycroft remembered how, after one particularly vicious session back then, he had walked out of the room on his own volition, his head held as high as always, barely. Once he was back in his cell and he was sure they were gone, it was a different story. The technology was not as advanced as it is now, he had deduced no cameras watched him. Knowing they could not see him; he had grabbed a pillow to mute his sobbing and fell apart as much as his pain ridden body would let him.

Mycroft had no idea if Jim noticed the cameras were off or thought it a ruse, but after the third day, Mycroft went into the system each night and after creating a loop to cover the time, he secretly turned the cameras off from midnight until 0500. How Moriarty used that private time, if he knew it existed, Mycroft would never know. He could only hope Moriarty took a moment to silently scream into his pillow as much as his aching body let him, as Mycroft had did then under similar circumstances.

Moriarty had reacted. He cursed, yelled, screamed no longer able to ignore the pain as before.

It was how Mycroft knew the reports Whitaker had given him on Moriarty’s physical state had to be off.

_Yes, I threw out the threat of more torture. I had to. Moriarty is not the only one who can act._

Still, Mycroft knew the man needed medical assistance the moment he leaned against the board. It did not matter how casually he leaned against it, there was NO way James Moriarty was going anywhere near that device except he had no choice.

Fake being okay by leaning his body against it for a moment, as though he did not care, or risk his body giving out on him in front of the enemy.

_That was never going to happen with me standing there in front of him._

“Dr. Tobias Gregson, is outside the office doors, sir.” Anthea called, amusement in her voice, "I can't let him in."

"Thanks, I'll let him in." Mycroft rang out, checked the cameras and buzzed him in. He gestured to the pair of armchairs in front of his desk. Gregson sat and immediately started to fidget.

“You are frightened, Dr. Gregson, why?”

“I see you have Dr. Whitaker’s latest report, yet I sit here, not Dr. Whitaker.” Gregson spoke all the while finding something on the floor that captured his attention.

“You sit here because each report requires the signatures of two doctors. Usually, it is done by doctors Rainer and Whitaker. Rainer was on holiday, so the corroborating signature fell to you as you are the assisting doctor on shift for most of these.” Mycroft opened the folder and indicated different pages within them. “Your signature appears on some documents and not others. I thought you would rather discuss the why of this here rather than in medical.”

Gregson raised his head and looked him in the eyes. “I really didn’t want to be doing this for a living, sir. Not as far down this rabbit hole as I’ve gotten. I just didn’t know how to get out from under Whitaker and what he is doing.”

“And exactly what do you believe he is doing?”

“Catering to you, sir. Or rather what _he_ believes it is that you want. He’s gone so ‘ends justify the means’ I’m not sure he remembers what _Primum Non Nocere_ means anymore. As long as Mr. Moriarty says he is fine to Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Whitaker feels justified in reporting the same to you and making the documentation back it up. Mr. Moriarty is a good actor sir. A good one, but the body tells truths the mind and the mouth lie about.”

The doctor clearly had not meant to say that much and immediately pressed his lips together.

_Ah, my suspicions about Whitaker are unfortunately true, but my deductions on Gregson are also true. What does he know?_

“And those truths are?” Mycroft prompted.

“He’s _not_ good, sir. Mentally, is one thing, I don’t know what forged him, but my experience – small though it may be compared to Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Rainer, tells me you’re breaking his body, but not him. Unless you really want to damage him. I don’t care what Dr. Whitaker states in his report, James Moriarty is not up to another session.” Gregson took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and put them on again.

“I’m no angel, I know what we do here and how complicit to a degree I am in it, sir. You break them, we fix then and don’t ask questions how it happened. I’m also not stupid. I have SEEN how those who didn’t play along to get along get thrown under the bus. It may be professional suicide here, but I don’t care. I am a DOCTOR first, a government employee second. You are not getting me to say someone is fit when they aren’t. I. WILL. NOT. put my name on that.” Gregson’s hand gestured at the report and quickly added, “Sir.”

“In your medical opinion what is the physical state of Jim Moriarty?”

“Honestly?”

“Your honesty is why you are here, Tobias, yes.”

Dr. Gregson told him. It was as bad as he deduced.

Mycroft his fingers tapped on the report his desk. It was not outright lying; Whitaker would not risk his career to that degree, yet it was not full truth. Mycroft had _never_ wanted Whitaker to lie on the reports at all.

_I need facts, not another yes man… my work is rife with such as is._

“Dr. Gregson I understand your concerns. It took a lot for you to come here. I would understand if you wanted to be placed elsewhere, but I sincerely would like you to stay on. You were put in a tough situation and unlike most, you have stuck to your guns so to speak and your values. Remain truthful to those values and to me and you will never be thrown under a bus. Dr. Whitaker will be on leave for the next few days, now that Dr. Rainer is back from holiday and will take over as lead again. That should solve that problem. If you could provide me with a report of your observances of Mr. Moriarty’s ailments, his corresponding treatments and your medical opinions of such since he first arrived, it would be appreciated. My concern now is Moriarty, but I know there are others in the ward. Your opinions on their treatment, if you have similar concerns, would be appreciated there as well. I will sit with both you and Dr. Rainer overmorrow. That conversation decides the level of Whitaker’s censure and/or removal.” Mycroft took the report and filed it in his desk, “That will be all.”

Dr. Gregson sat for a moment. He understandably expected a more severe outcome not, what from Mycroft amounted to, praise.

“Oh! Thank you!” he jumped out of the chair and headed for the door. His hand on the open door he paused, “One thing Mr. Holmes…”

“Yes, Dr. Gregson.”

“The condition he was brought in? It is my medical opinion that he cannot survive another _session_ …”

Gregson stopped speaking, but Mycroft knew he had more to say and waited.

“Either give him time to properly heal before you start again or just kill him cleanly already.”

With that Gregson left.

_There is a third option, Dr. Gregson._

Mycroft picked up his office phone.

“Do you need me to come in, sir?”

“No, Anthea, Sherlock is correct you need a break from here. Stay home again today. You can set the process in motion from there. We discussed this before. Wheels up in 28.”

“Thank you, sir. Understood.”


	11. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under pressure, Mycroft is forced to do the only thing he can to alleviate it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [chapter 7 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58450657)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“So, we are in agreement of the arrangement.” Mycroft sat back in his chair and looked to the two men before him.

“It will be pushing it, but yes. Even as hurt as he is, he still tends to wake some thirty minutes earlier than expected. This will keep him down for at least an hour and a half. The pain meds will hold him for another two hours. He should be under someone’s care by then. Or he’s going to be in a bit of pain before it becomes bad.” Dr. Rainer nodded as he flicked through the files in his lap.

Mycroft watched as the doctor’s eyes would squint slightly as they came across certain items. The more egregious of Moriarty’s injuries. Dr. Rainer was appalled when Dr. Gregson explained the discrepancies between what Dr. Whitaker had filed officially and what Dr. Gregson kept in a separate file. Once he worked his mind around the disbelief at Whitaker’s actions, he was more than a little upset that Tobias had not come to Mycroft directly with his concerns, which in turn upset the younger doctor who started to defend himself when Rainer raised his hand.

“Dr. Gregson, my being upset at what happened was not to be taken as censure of your actions. I apologize if that is your takeaway from this,” the elder doctor spoke. “I am upset the Whitaker went to such extremes that put you and thus everyone else in our unit at risk especially the patients. I will be addressing this at the next staff briefing. I’ll have a private briefing with Whitaker once he returns from his leave.”

Mycroft gave Dr. Rainer a look, one that the man deftly avoided. He knew Dr. Rainer was aware that Dr. Whitaker had been mugged two nights before and beaten badly. Rumors had it that the doctor was told en route by the EMTs that he looked fine and would state such in the records. The EMTs, on Mycroft’s payroll, were professionals and did no such thing, but Whitaker got the point. Dr. Rainer knew it would be a couple of weeks before Whitaker’s return and when he did, he would be reassigned to work on the medical team of someone who liked yes men, someone like Sir Edwin.

After a personal midnight visit from Anthea, Whitaker’s fear of Mycroft Holmes turned to scared shitless of Mycroft and how easy he could have been killed. Mycroft had not asked for anything yet, and likely never would because he no longer trusted the man’s judgement, but he knew Whitaker understood that he was now Mycroft’s inside man on Porlock's medical dealings.

“Excellent. It is going on half nine; all is arranged then for a noon release.” Mycroft looked from one doctor to the other.

It was not a question, but both men gave assent as they stood, recognizing the dismissal.

Mycroft sighed as the door closed behind them. He worked another fifteen minutes before he himself stood. He was not happy by any means. This was one he would surely count as a rare loss. A loss he was about to cut.

_Once more into the breach Mycroft._

***** 

“Well, well, well, had enough of my fine company, Mikey?” Jim Moriarty’s dark eyes flicked over the replica of the suit he had worn when he arrived along with a bag with his personal belongings. The agent who carried them placed them on the bed. They were a far cry from the pyjamas like standard issue prison wear he had worn every day since he was captured. They both knew it was not the suit cut from his body, but Moriarty’s eyes could not help but track it. “If I could have trusted you to NOT try and track my team down, I could have stopped the cascades two days ago, when you first made the decision.”

Mycroft stood just outside the door next to the other agent on detail and said nothing as he and the agent still inside the cell waited. Mycroft raised a brow and looked at Moriarty with a hint of amusement.

“Fine!” Jim huffed and rose from his chair. 

“You told me his cell was checked, sir!” Two minutes later the, just short of gobsmacked, agent held three different shivs in hand.

“I specifically told you it was checked _three days ago_. He’s had how many meals since then? Only one other agent, who like you, counted the flatware at meal’s end and reported what, if anything, was missing. The rest just delivered the covered dish to the canteen unchecked. YOU knew I was coming here. Did YOU have him restrained outside and have the room tossed and put back together this morning to check it yourself? Or did you just assume someone else did it? Does THIS look like the room was recently tossed?” Mycroft entered the cell and pulled the chair Moriarty had sat in towards him. He turned it over, removed yet another shiv formed from a plastic toothbrush and handed it to the agent. “Did you notice his toothbrush was missing when you entered? The people we bring here tend not to be your common criminals, agent. And as you can see, Moriarty is the craftiest of them all. Here’s a lesson even I have learned the hard way: do not assume others did the job you yourself did not do without checking first. I let you waltz into this cell blind. Had the prisoner not deduced what was happening by the items you carried, you could have been killed or at minimum hurt badly by any of the means you now hold in your hands because you assumed others did their job. Please check along the top and the sides of the door trim on your way out.”

Mycroft gestured to the bed for Moriarty to sit before he righted the chair he held and sat facing Moriarty, his back to the door. He watched Moriarty’s face and saw the miniscule quirk of his lip just before he heard the annoyed huff of breath from the agent.

“How many?” Mycroft crossed his leg at the ankle and adjusted his trouser just so.

“Two, sir. One on the side, one on top.”

Moriarty gave Mycroft an innocent _hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying_ shrug. Mycroft pretended he did not see the slight frown as Moriarty subtly inspected the bag that contained his personal items.

“Agent, I find out something this ignorant happened again, if you survive your own stupidity, you will be meeting former colleagues in Ulaanbaatar.”

“Ulaanbaatar? I know it’s summer now, but that place averages minus 25 Celsius in winter,” Moriarty scooted back to lean against a wall and gave an exaggerated shiver, “Brrr! That’s cold Mikey.”

“It’s better than the two I sent to Yakutsk.” Mycroft shrugged and glanced over his shoulder, “You’re dismissed, agent.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent slunk out.

_Even if he has more, he knows it would not be in his best interest to use them now._

Mycroft waited until they were alone in the cell.

He reached in a pocket, pulled out a jammer and aimed it at the cameras in opposite corners.

“I had wondered about that, but I did not trust it...” Jim sniffed.

_So, he had noticed when the cameras were off._

“…Fuck your sympathy, Mycroft.”

_And did not make use of it._

“As if you would trust my word even if I gave it.” Mycroft ignored the words and responded to Moriarty’s earlier statement instead. “Besides, two days ago, though you put up a good front, you were barely able to stand on your own for more than ten minutes. You needed…time.”

“Quite so.” Jim admitted as he rose, turned and slowly removed the undershirt he wore, his movements stiff.

_He looks -somewhat- better…?_

The forty-eight hours of being under the direct care of doctors Rainer and Gregson made a difference. He was still in pain; Mycroft could tell that now that he looked at _the man_ and not _the prisoner_.

He would have let Jim heal more if for no other reason than his personal guilt for losing control and causing worse damage. Mycroft made himself observe the man’s back, the damage that he knew was on him.

The familiar spine.

_Roxie._

“Why did you tell me? About _her_?”

“I suspect your memory is like mine, you’d have put it together sooner or later, Mikey. I opted for sooner. Turned out I was correct: you don’t take it… _well_ …when nasty personal surprises happen.” Jim pulled on the fresh undershirt.

Mycroft chose not to respond to the truth of that.

When Jim turned back around, the flirtatiousness of Roxie was back in full force. It intrigued Mycroft how Moriarty shifted his body and suddenly Roxie was before him. Granted, sans the dramatic makeup, and a bruised and battered one, yes, but that certain _je ne sais quoi_ of her magic was there as she winked at Mycroft, “You came to _several_ shows. You seemed especially moved by _Teo Torriatte_. You liked her. I know you did.”

_Not nearly as much as I more than like Gregory._

“Not nearly as much as that sniper seemed to like you.” Mycroft smiled.

“ _That sniper_ ,” Moriarty mocked him. “Replaced your concierge yet, Mikey?”

Mycroft saw the brief flash of Moriarty’s rage at the mention of him, before he smiled as Roxie again. Mycroft returned an equally insincere smile at the unspoken confirmation that it was Sebastian Moran.

_But is Moran a sore spot? Or a tender one?_

“Nice disguises, by the way. The nose and beard prosthetics were a nice touch. I was not sure it was the same person until the Queen competition.” Moriarty was back, any semblance of Roxie gone.

_Ah, a tender spot. I was right, he likes Sebastian as well._

“Anyhoo, thanks to you, she won’t be coming back again, even if the rebuild can happen.” Jim stood. He dropped his trousers and pants without ceremony.

Mycroft had expected the move, and he knew Moriarty would have been aware of that. Thus, the master criminal arched a brow at Mycroft’s flash of surprise. “You didn’t know Queens Lounge burned down? A rival gang thing between owners a few weeks back. Granted who cares if a gay dive bar burns right? I thought Anthony would have informed you.”

“1- Something tells me it’s not quite that simple. 2- haven’t been there since that Queen tribute night. 3- it’s not my care. And 4- who is Anthony?” Mycroft shrugged innocently.

Jim simply grinned at the falseness as he pulled on the new pants and reached for the trousers.

Mycroft saw the suppressed wince as Moriarty bent to put on the trousers.

“Your metabolism processes faster than expected, as we learned on your first day here, but you will be given a sedative, that when you wake up you will be close enough to, if not already in, Central London to be dropped off to make contact. The pain meds you’ll receive should last you a few hours.”

Mycroft pulled out the jammer, reactivated the cameras in the room and continued with procedural information as Moriarty reached for the bag of his belongings. He ignored the miniature explosion that happened when Moriarty calmly took his watch and mobile from the bag, pressed a few buttons on the mobile and dropped them in the toilet where he turned over a trash bin for cover. He moved out of the way just in time to avoid the splash as the mobile blew.

“It’s fine. Leave the door open...” Mycroft still seated; his leg still crossed, held up a hand to still security as they rushed into the room guns drawn. Security looked dubiously from Moriarty, who smirked as he stood with his hands out, to the acrid smoke that seeped up from the toilet before they returned to their post.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and calmly sped dialed Anthea, “I owe you some notes, it was the commode, not the sink. It wasn’t in his hands sixty seconds and he took the watch with it. If the explosives didn’t do it, the water damage on top of it did. Please vent the room, then contact medical and transport. Also call facilities. I expect the commode itself may require replacement.”

Moriarty sat on the edge of the bed and went through his wallet. He held up a note to the light and laughed, “Really Mikey?” he took the entirety of the bagged belongings, dropped them into the sink and ran water over them. “As though I would trust anything you left me.”

Slowly Moriarty finished dressing. Several, no longer hidden, tracking devices were on the bed when he was through.

_He is good, but I knew that..._

Mycroft had the duplicate suit made in Moriarty’s correct size. Unfortunately, he was no longer that size. Moriarty glared at him as he tugged at the clothes that hung poorly from his thinner frame.

He was fully dressed, sunglasses on, when Anthea arrived with extra security; Dr. Gregson and a rolling gurney in tow.

“All that? For ME?” Jim’s smile was pure saccharine.

“Doctor…” Mycroft stood at last as Gregson entered. He took Moriarty’s vitals one last time and nodded to Mycroft.

“If you could be so kind, Mr. Moriarty.” Gregson gestured to the waiting gurney.

Guns were not drawn, they did not have to be, all knew they were easily accessible, and if Moriarty had any crazy ideas, he could not out dodge them all.

He climbed onto the gurney and held out his arm for the injection. Dr. Gregson administered the sedative and monitored his pulse as it took effect.

“It’s been real, Mycroft Holmes…” Jim laid down as the sedative started to take effect, “But know this: next time I tangle with you Holmes boys, someone’s going to die.”

Mycroft smiled enigmatically and signaled for him to be taken away. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

“You know he’s going to come after you someday,” Anthea noted as their sedan left the carpark and headed to the Diogenes office.

Mycroft looked out of the window and watched as the sedan with Moriarty emerged from the carpark behind them and headed another direction.

“I know.”


	12. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is exhausted as he and his colleagues scramble to repair the damage after Moriarty's release. In the midst of it Sherlock is stabbed while on a case with Lestrade. And seeing Lestrade is its own complication as always as Mycroft begins to struggle with who he is and who he wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [thru Chapter 10 in Fabricdragon's timeline.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/58731370?)

“So we are agreed?” Porlock closed the file on screen.

“ _We_ _agreed_ two days ago, when it was first brought to the table, thank you for joining us.” Antarctica's sarcasm ran deep as he pointedly indicated Banner, Love, Static and himself. “But we understood the time needed to lay traps.”

“Not that they were of any use,” Porlock pointed out.

Mycroft did not bother to respond to the dig. The traps were laid within the first 24 hours and they all knew it, yet Porlock was correct, they were not of any use.

Jim Moriarty was given two days to heal enough that he can stand on his own for a short period with enough pain meds to last him a few hours. He was then blindfolded and driven around for an hour before he was released on what Mycroft thought would be a random street. There was a Tube station, several buses and a taxi stand within walking distance. All covered by various agents at the wait. Mass surveillance cameras to watch his moves and several tracers sewn into his clothes.

None of it mattered.

Cameras picked up Jim Moriarty as he walked for a bit into a restaurant and sat at a booth in the rear. He sat for a few minutes speaking to no one other than to place an order for tea. After a while he went to the rest room. A few minutes later he was back at the booth sipping tea.

Or so they thought.

On a hunch an agent went in as a customer for closer visual confirmation. A small man with dark, slicked back hair who wore a black suit and Jim’s sunglasses, sat in the booth and sipped tea. From a distance he passed for Jim.

“Have you seen the gentleman that sat here a few minutes ago?”

“Tired looking bloke? Came out the stall, washed his hands and offered me 100 quid for a cap I paid not even ten for said I could keep these nice sunglasses and just sit here for a few. He was trying to get from some bird following him. Said I’d know when it was time to go.” He sized up the agent in front of him, “I’m guessing there weren’t no bird, and it’s time to go?”

The booth was near the loo and no other movement was traced because the pants Jim wore were left neatly folded on the counter in the loo. It was folded in such a way that the rear of them faced up, another tracer on top. A fork and knife were at the sides like a place setting and the pants were the entrée.

“I think we can extrapolate the meaning of this.” the agent had captioned the photo sent.

The shoes Moriarty had worn were found by the rear exit where an employee noted his wellies were missing. Someone in the restaurant knew Jim and assisted, but there was no proof and no tracking devices.

By then the man himself was gone with a solid half-hour lead into his disappearing act.

Jim Moriarty was a man experienced in how to duck mass surveillance cameras. There was perhaps a glimpse of a leg that exited the alley behind the restaurant, but nothing concrete. Mycroft was incredibly frustrated with how well the man could avoid a camera, seemingly without effort.

Mycroft knew Moriarty would still need medical care and soon. Four doctors known for their ties to the underground and back door clinics, as well as two others who were questionable were all monitored.

Once again, none of it mattered.

“We targeted the most likely candidates. He has not made use of any we thought to track, but there are quite a few out there. His people could have had a whole new doctor at the ready as far as we know. Perhaps like you, in the aftermath of things his team shook things up as well.” Love noted. She gave a slight twist of her lips that could have been a smirk.

Mycroft had just shy of decimated his team in the three days since Jim Moriarty’s release and disappearance into the underworld.

Most, like Cox and Washburn, who 'just did their job’ without question, were reassigned, to where the only answer of “Yes, sir!” will get people killed on purpose. Others, like Reid and Singh who were initially slow to react, but ultimately turned their guns on one of their own to stop Warner from raping Moriarty, were heavily reprimanded but survived the shake-up.

For now.

He knew there would have to be some fine tuning until it was a properly oiled machine to his liking.

Yes, Mycroft was in charge and ultimately accepted the fault for not keeping a tighter reign, still he needed staff that knew how to spot something was wrong and at the very least question it. Moriarty may never know how close he came to death by sheer accident and incompetence, on top of what happened because of Mycroft’s unchecked rage. There must be people other than Anthea to check him. And even she can only do so when she herself isn't affected by her own demons.

The fact that Mycroft _wanted_ to be in that room should have set off all sorts of alarms for Anthea. Like him the stress of Moriarty’s capture had her off her game. Neither had any business in that room. She was barely able to stay long enough to properly check Mycroft when she finally realized he was going to go too far. And because Anthea could not check Mycroft, the agents on duty failed because they took it as consent and did not question it, when they should have. It was the moment when the master criminal’s guard was down and Mycroft saw him, really saw HIM, that saved Jim Moriarty.

They all failed each other, and if Dr. Gregson had not questioned Dr. Whitaker’s ethics in the form of silent protest, Jim Moriarty may have died. By not signing the reports and corroborating with Whitaker, he saved the man. That was what Mycroft needed: people who knew how to do their job, when to question their job and if necessary, to respectfully question their superior’s actions in their job.

Mycroft gave Lady Smallwood an unconcerned tilt of his head as they left the conference room and headed for the lifts. “Job security is one thing. Job complacency is another. Sometimes a complete shake-up is needed.”

“You still have Anthea,” Smallwood pointed out.

“You still have Vivian,” Mycroft countered, “And you’ve been with her longer than I’ve been with Anthea. The only way either will leave our side is by death.”

He reached into his pocket for his mobile as it vibrated, a small smile formed at the familiar pattern.

_Gregory._

“Fair enough.” Lady Smallwood entered the lift that had arrived first, “Well, at least this is over.”

Mycroft gave her a single nod as the doors for her lift closed.

***** 

››TEXT›› 2357: KCH. Stabbed. It’s bad. – GL

_Sherlock!_

John was in Inverness at a medical conference, likely asleep at this hour. Mycroft knew he was not going to get a more detailed account of his brother’s condition until he reached the hospital.

››TEXT›› 2358: On my way, thank you. – MH

“Yes, Anthea I...” Mycroft answered the mobile when it rang a minute later, he expected it.

“Sir, it just came over the wire, your brother is en route to King’s, stab wound…” his assistant spoke over him.

“…I know, Lestrade texted.” Mycroft spoke over her in turn.

“Oh! Your driver has been notified and will meet you in the carpark.”

“Thank you. On my way.”

They were spoken weeks ago, but Lady Smallwood’s words echoed in his mind as he rode the lift to the carpark level.

_Well, at least this is over._

He ignored the ominous voice in the back of his mind that added the words: _For now_.

Mycroft could not decide whether it was a bane or a blessing that though his brother was still in recovery, he has gone this route enough times with Sherlock, that the head nurse for the floor barely batted an eye at his arrival, merely provided the room number.

However, seeing a snoozing Gregory Lestrade in the guest chair was a surprise. 

Sheer exhaustion had taken its toll. The DI’s head nodded drunkenly, his body was slouched over in the chair and looked as though it was about to fall over.

“Hello Lestrade.” Mycroft spoke loud enough to be heard, but softly to not startle the man.

“Wrrr….” Lestrade’s body righted itself as his eyes popped open in surprise. He looked pleased for a moment seeing Mycroft, but then frowned.

_He looks tired and he’s not happy to realize it’s me._

“So that’s where we are…” Gregory sighed sadly as he ran a rough hand over his face.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Gregory shook his head and stood. He gave Mycroft the rundown of how Sherlock was stabbed when he tackled a suspect to the ground. The surgery to repair the nicked intestine went well. “Sherlock is in ICU, a full recovery expected. They will bring him in when he wakes up. You know the drill. I guess I’ll head out now.”

“You’re not staying?” Mycroft asked surprised. Vigils by Sherlock’s side had been an unspoken thing between them for the past few years, even when John became a staple in his younger brother’s life.

”You _want_ me to stay?” Gregory stopped equally surprised.

“Of course I do, Lestrade!” Mycroft said reflectively and honestly.

“Lestrade.” Gregory echoed almost sadly. “Have we regressed that far? That you’re back to the formality of addressing me by my surname? You can’t even call me Gregory anymore? I don’t understand.”

Mycroft’s brows furrowed at a loss. “What is there to understand?”

Gregory went stock still and simply stared at him before he spoke, “I thought. I thought maybe we had finally gotten to a point of friendship. Honest friendship! Perhaps something more. I left the ball in your court Mycroft and you lobbed it back to me with a pin it and its been losing air since. Over a year, I tried to be patient and play by your rules, I can’t…” Mycroft saw the disappointment on the man’s face as he headed for the door again, before stopped in front of him, “What did I DO that was so egregious, Mycroft? What? Is falling in love such a damned crime?!”

Mycroft nearly stumbled in place at Gregory’s words.

_He admits that he loves him._

Gregory was correct. Since that day he saw Gregory on the motorcycle with the strange man he had slowly backed away from the DI putting more and more professional distance between them. He never asked about the man, he did not look him up even when he learned the man’s name through John.

_It is my own fault for pushing the man away, I have no right to obsess over Gregory if he found happiness elsewhere._

Still Mycroft had not been prepared for Gregory to confess love for the man. “Love…?”

“Yes love. You know… Love. Kind… Patient…”

Mycroft felt he was going to be sick. It must have shown.

“Myc…?” Gregory touched his arm in concern.

“NO!” Mycroft brushed his hand away, “You can’t call me that! That is a diminutive only someone in love with _me_ can use! You cannot confess your love for another man and then turn around and call me that! How DARE you!”

Gregory looked at him surprised and confused, “Another man…?”

“Did you think I did not know? I saw you with him.”

Unable to look at Gregory, Mycroft walked over to the window and gazed out over the very late London night.

“Mycroft what in the bloody hell are you talking about?” Gregory followed him.

“He made you laugh. He made you happy. He _held_ you.” Mycroft bit off the last words. “What was I supposed to do in the face of that, but let you be happy?”

“Mycroft Holmes I have no idea who are what you think you saw, but…”

“You rejected my call!” Mycroft turned his head from the dark night to look at Gregory with a sneer.

“I don’t know what you’re on about! In the beginning yes, I rejected your calls. One of my first lessons of learning who you were was in the folly of doing such if I wanted to maintain a working mobile. The last time I rejected a call of yours was when…” Gregory stopped and frowned.

“Have you rejected so many of my calls in recent times you cannot discern between them anymore?” Mycroft asked sarcastically. Still, he could not help but be mesmerized by the rapid range of emotions that flitted across Gregory’s handsome face as it came to him and then ended in absolutely the last expression Mycroft would have expected.

Suppressed laughter.

Gregory Lestrade was clearly trying to stifle the guffaw that demanded vocalization from him. His failure expressed itself in sniggers and snorts that defied any attempts at suppression.

“Murphy? You’re jealous! Oh God!” Gregory gasped in sudden realization and broke into further suppressed peals of laughter at the knowledge. “Of _Murphy_!” His voice cracked on the name.

Gregory looked at Mycroft’s face, and with fist to mouth, Gregory doubled over in mirth.

With Herculean effort, Gregory stood up again, the DI’s barely contained laughter reverberated in Mycroft’s mind and grated already frayed nerves. The pressures of the past months of political intrigues culminating in the torrent of Moriarty’s capture and release. The past few days since has been nothing of picking up the pieces and trying to set things back to rights as possible.

He wanted to go back to one of their favored places when they saw each other weekly. He needed the quiet strength the man exuded, that settled and calmed him. He wished for those Halcyon days when for a moment there was a hope of a something on the cusp, something more between he and Gregory.

Mycroft wanted…

Mycroft needed…

Mycroft wished…

“Mycroft…?” Lestrade raised a concerned brow at Mycroft’s sudden quietness.

“Gregory I…”

The only person more surprised than Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade to suddenly have a mouthful of Mycroft Holmes was Mycroft Holmes himself as he shoved the man against a wall and kissed him.

It was another surprise to realize that Gregory, after a moment of astonished hesitation which froze him in place, returned the kiss as ardently.

When they finally came up for air the reality of what he just did sank in.

_He’s not mine. He belongs to the strange man. To Murphy._

“Oh God Gregory! I… I apologize! I…” Mycroft immediately backed up horrified at himself.

“Shh…” Gregory reached out and placed a finger on Mycroft’s lips, “You’re tired. I can tell that should have never happened. Not now. I used to once, but now I have no idea what’s going on in your funny little mind, but this is neither the time nor place to find out.” Gregory pushed himself from the wall. “Take care of your brother tonight. I have a court date in less than twelve hours, I need sleep.”

Gregory bit his own lips in residual amusement as he headed for the door.

“You’re still laughing.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, chagrinned.

“Because it’s still bloody funny.” Gregory had better control of his mirth now, but barely. He stopped at the door and turned. “We’ll talk when neither of us are at wit’s end with exhaustion. Goodnight…” his warm brown eyes stared into his for several heartbeats, “Myc…”

As the door closed behind Lestrade, Mycroft sagged into the vacated chair. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The quiet of the early morning hospital room was too loud as his mind reeled.

Images of Gregory over the years they’ve known each other. First as combatants until both understood and respected their shared love and care for Sherlock and became frenemies. The oh so slow forming of their friendship. Mycroft could say that now. They were friends.

_Were friends? Are we still? I have pushed him away._

Mycroft remembered another such hospital visit for Sherlock. He had been working a case with DI Hopkins when he was hurt. His baby brother did have a talent for getting hurt and a stress fracture of the 5th metatarsal, right foot was the current calamity. John had gone in front of them to open the door at Baker Street. With the boot he had to wear, Sherlock misjudged a step and slipped. Mycroft, immediately behind Sherlock caught his brother and averted the backward plummet. In a fit of ire at the near fall Sherlock had snatched himself out of Mycroft’s grasp which caused Mycroft to misstep and slip when he felt the strong fingers that had dug into his sides and steadied him. It was not that he had forgotten the newly minted DI was behind them, but had mentally dismissed his presence. Gregory’s hands were just above his hip bones in his quick grasp to halt Mycroft’s fall. Mycroft immediately thanked Lestrade and they had both rolled their eyes in commiseration as Sherlock continued up the stairs unconcerned. Lestrade’s grip was strong enough that Mycroft had Lestrade fingertip sized bruises for a few days. It was the grip a lover would employ in coitus and having felt that casual strength, Mycroft could not help wonder how he would feel.

It was the first time Mycroft had such a thought for another person in over a decade. The depth of that desire floored him when he examined it much later and he finally admitted to himself that he may have deeper feelings for the DI after all. It was Mycroft’s doings that the dinners became more frequent. He had allowed Gregory to see parts of him that he has shown to very few. Gregory had accepted the gift of that friendship letting Mycroft set the pace until the night he asked of more from Mycroft and Mycroft had frozen. Then, like now, he saw how it spun out before him. Mycroft having some form of the life he has secretly always wanted to live. A life that was diametrically different than the life he currently lived. He wanted the happy, carefree with love that the two of them would fall into ever deeper. A life where he liked what he saw in the mirror.

He had been on the cusp of accepting that he could have that happiness and then he had a nightmare. A nightmare where it was Gregory at the pool in Semtex.

Mycroft knew the distance between them was his own doing. Gregory gave him a chance to fight for him. Instead Mycroft had frozen and then backpedaled.

 _And now I’ve gone and kissed him._

Mycroft’s brain stuttered to an end stop.

_He kissed me back!_

Mycroft Holmes knew he had so much more to learn about Gregory Lestrade, but there was one irrefutable truth he did know: Gregory was not a cheater. Not before, and certainly not after the divorce from his serial philandering wife. Gregory would have never allowed the kiss, let alone return as he had, were he dating someone else.

_He kissed me back!_

Mycroft caressed his slightly irritated lips from Gregory’s stubble. The smell of the man still in his nostrils. The slide of their tongues as Gregory...

The nightmare flashed in his mind and he groaned aloud.

_Moriarty put John Watson in a Semtex vest because of Sherlock..._

He did not want to admit that a part of him was terrified of what would happen if Moriarty somehow learned of his feelings for Gregory.

Feelings that even after all this time were by some miracle still reciprocated.

_I don’t deserve the likes of you, Gregory, but I want to be worthy of you…_

Days later, while leaving Baker Street, Mycroft recalled his brother’s words from a previous conversation, “And I _will not_ live a stilted life in fear of his revenge.”

_Moriarty is still out there. Cautious is not stilted, little brother. I cannot let him find out about Gregory. We know he’s going to come back after me. We stick to the plans._


	13. Even Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mycroft and Sherlock lays plans they become privy to a story from the past that has the Iceman make a decision for his future...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

TW: Brief mention of past miscarriage. 

“Mycroft we have over fifty different scenarios. Moriarty has gone deep underground. None of my markers are behaving oddly. My homeless network is equally quiet.” Sherlock closed his laptop and pushed it slightly away.

“Agreed. There is nothing more that can be done until he makes a move and we can narrow it down.” Mycroft sighed as he closed one set of files on his own laptop and opened others.

The two brothers were taking advantage of Sherlock’s convalescence to narrow down the far too many possibilities a vengeful Jim Moriarty might take to come after them. John was on a half day surgery shift that ended an hour ago, they expected him in soon, so they put away all plans from view. He and Sherlock had devised over two hundred scenarios at one point.

_Having it narrowed down to fifty-six is much better. We still need to bring it down more._

Mycroft flipped through some of the other opened files. He smirked at the movement he deduced happening with a few EU countries. Porlock was trying to get the Ugly Duckling mission back into play again. A mission that currently had no chance of success.

_Do you think me so preoccupied with fixing the mess of Moriarty’s cascades I would not notice? There is a reason I keep shutting down the mission, you arse. The sooner you learn you are never going to be good enough to outwit me, the smoother things would work._

“Are you going to tell John any of this?” he asked his brother.

“There is no _any of this_ to tell.” Sherlock shook his head, “It would…complicate…things. He needs to stay out of the loop for as long as possible. If he’s ever to be brought in at all.”

“Perhaps it would be less…complicated…if you told him how you felt, Sherlock.”

_Hypocrisy thy name is Mycroft Holmes._

Sherlock looked up at him startled, “Who are you and what have you done with my pain-in-the-arse brother?”

“Some of the plans on the table are drastic to say the least, Sherlock. I am not sure the good doctor will be as nonchalant about this, or as forgiving, as you seem to think.”

Sherlock gave him a considered look, "Moriarty’s already come after him once because of me. I see no reason he would not do so again. I will not risk John any further.”

Mycroft jaw clenched at the words.

_It is my same fear for Gregory, after all._

“Are you going to tell Mummy and Dad?” Sherlock blatantly redirected the subject.

“What? Why?” Mycroft frowned at the ridiculous question. “Unless we must use any of the scenarios that involved a fake death, no. And only then to not have them grieve unnecessarily. Not even I could do that to them. If it’s mine that must be faked, you WILL tell them, Sherlock.”

“If we choose your faked death, I will tell our parents.” Sherlock promised.

Both brothers looked up as the front door opened and the voice of Mrs. Hudson reached up.

“Sherlock! I’m coming up. I do hope you’re decent.”

“If by _decent_ you mean fully dressed, yes, he is, Mrs. Hudson. What goes on in his mind is another story.” Mycroft responded.

“My thoughts cannot be seen. Me in all my glory, as observed when she brought lunch yesterday afternoon … can.” Sherlock smirked as he reached for his violin, “it was… a bit unexpected.”

Mycroft shook his head as Sherlock began to play _The Stripper_.

“And at my age! Behave you!” Mrs. Hudson entered with groceries and went straight into the kitchen to put them away, “He hadn’t answer when I called out. I thought he was in the loo. I didn’t see he was asleep on the sofa until the clattering of dishes when I put the tray down on the kitchen table woke him and he jumped up. Reminded me of my husband, Frank. Even with the stabbing. Falling asleep on the sofa in the nude and then scaring me half to death by startling awake when I passed through the living room looking for him.” She gave a sad little sigh, “I should’ve known he had begun to do really bad things sooner.”

_And on THAT note._

Mycroft quickly closed his laptop and locked it in his briefcase. He pulled out his mobile to text his driver. The blinking cursor of a message typed, but not yet sent, greeted him. Again.

With a sigh he moved past it, texted his driver and came back to it.

_Not now._

Mycroft knew how Sherlock and the older woman met, but he had never heard her talk about her life with her late-husband before. He had no interest and was about to say so when Sherlock spoke.

“You lived with him for nearly twenty years, how did you NOT know? Weren’t you afraid of him?”

Mrs. Hudson paused at the unexpected question. Clearly it never had been asked before. She placed a container of milk in the refrigerator and then removed something that had been in a human being once. She pointedly looked at Sherlock and binned it.

Mycroft could not decide what surprised him more: that she so blatantly did it, or that Sherlock was clearly not happy about it, but did not take her to task.

_That was unwise, little brother. Your question insinuates a complicity in her late-husband’s wrong doings. She knows your experiments are important to you. It was the only way she could express her displeasure right now, even though she knows you are correct. At least you have the grace to look chastised._

“In the beginning I honestly did not know. He was good to me. Doted on me. I was his English Rose. I can’t pinpoint when I knew for sure, but one day I just… _knew_. He omitted things, a lot of things, but he never once lied to me. Not when it was important. When I flat out asked him and he realized I knew, he told me. I knew who he was, what he did, but I still loved him because he loved me. He kept it from me. He wasn’t always successful.” Mrs. Hudson came into the living room and sat on the sofa, her eyes and thoughts an ocean and many years away. “He came home now and again stabbed he’d say; from a _mugging_.” Mycroft could hear the quotation marks around the word, “I became afraid for him. I became terrified each time he went out, afraid that would be the day he wouldn’t come back to me, because still I loved him. I did not ask again; he did not tell; because he still loved me. And then one day I realized though I still loved him, he had stopped loving me. I knew he had stopped because he stopped hiding the details of what he did. I no longer had plausible deniability; I no longer had his protection. Then he… killed… those boys. Sons of a rival cartel…”

Sherlock had put his violin down while she spoke. He walked over to the sofa and sat next to the woman.

“You told me you witnessed the murders, but that is not why you came to me is it?” Sherlock handed her a handkerchief.

“No. No, it wasn’t…” She dabbed at her eyes and shook her head, “I realized those boys could have been one of mine. We never had children, Frank and me. I miscarried with each pregnancy, and then I never got pregnant again.”

Sherlock looked to Mycroft in surprise and then blinked in more surprise as he realized Mycroft already knew when he flashed four fingers and fisted them quickly before she could see.

“The children we would have had, the eldest, would have been the ages of those boys. They could have been murdered by a rival as these had been murdered by Frank. They were teenagers, Sherlock! They had nothing to do with any of it. The man I loved had become this… this…monster. I stopped being afraid for him, and became afraid _of_ him. I was the English wife of an American drug cartel runner who had members of the police on his payroll. I had no where to turn, and too scared to run. Then I saw your name in the paper two days later. It seemed fate. A fellow Englishman who solves crimes in Miami. Somehow, I knew you could help me, and you did.”

Mycroft stared at the woman and he knew…

_She loved him. Even knowing what he did, a part of her still does._

“You loved him. Yet you had him executed. You had my brother make sure of it. How?”

“Yes. I did.” She answered plainly as she stood, done with talking. “If he could kill those innocent boys, he could and would have eventually killed me.”

Mycroft had heard the doctor’s arrival while he listened to Mrs. Hudson, but It hadn’t fully registered that he had stood there for a while until he walked into the room and she looked up, “Hello John.”

“It’s not how could you have him executed, Mrs. Hudson. Caring is not an advantage. My brother understands that.” Sherlock stood when she had, as had Mycroft, “How could you still love him?”

Sherlock nodded to the doctor as he went back to his violin.

“As I said, he never lied to me. He was good to me…until he wasn’t.” Mrs. Hudson placed Sherlock’s handkerchief in a pocket. “Sometimes good people do horrific things, but whether they own up to it not, even monsters have a heart, Mycroft Holmes.” She gave him a measured look as she walked past, “And for good or bad, someone that can love it.”

Mrs. Hudson had stopped at the top step about to turn for the kitchen, “Oh! Silly me. I think I might have left a thing or two on the table...”

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. H. Go on down, I’ll get it.” John assured her as he took off his jacket and dropped it on the arm of the chair by the door.

Mycroft watched John as Sherlock began to play. Mycroft knew all the usual pieces Sherlock would play when he was deep in thought. Not much had changed from over the years, but what he played now was something new he had composed.

And every fiber in Mycroft’s being knew each note was about the man who watched his brother play the words he will not say.

“The heart wants what the heart wants even when it can’t tell it or shouldn’t have it…”

Mycroft pretended he had not heard John’s whisper to himself before the doctor headed into the kitchen. 

Mycroft thought about the unsent message that waited.

“If there is nothing else,” Mycroft picked up his briefcase, “I’ve other matters in which to attend.”

“Starting a war or preventing one?” Sherlock stopped on a purposely shrill note he knew would irritate him.

“The day is yet young, little brother, it’s a coin toss,” Mycroft quipped as he headed for the stairs, “Anon...”

“Not too anon, _please_.” he heard Sherlock call out as he began to play again.

“Good day, Doctor Watson.”

“Mycroft.”

Once in the sedan Mycroft pulled out his mobile to text Anthea but looked at the still blinking cursor of the message still unsent.

Mycroft remembered when he had awakened from what he thought was a pleasant dream. He dreamt he had passionately kissed Gregory and Gregory had kissed him back with equal passion.

Then his eyes popped open when Sherlock groaned in pain in his sleep. He realized then he had fallen asleep in the chair at King’s College Hospital after Sherlock had been brought in from recovery. Mycroft gingerly touched his face. The slight friction from Lestrade’s stubble still burned along his jaw and the trace of Gregory’s cologne that clung to his clothing meant the kiss was not a dream.

_Oh God, I kissed him!_

His mobile was in his hands and the first text sent before he truly thought about it.

››TEXT›› 0759: I am not one given to outbursts of feelings. I think you know I am not a Neanderthal and I do sincerely apologize for pawing on you last night. – MH

››TEXT›› 0807: I am not one to accept an apology when I know the giver is not sincere. – GL

››TEXT›› 0809: I am most appalled at my behavior, Gregory. I assure you I do sincerely apologize. – MH

››TEXT›› 0813: At least you’re calling me Gregory again. I will accept your apology, if you can truly tell me that you are sorry. – GL

Mycroft had stared at the text. He had built his career and being a master manipulator and liar. His fingers hovered over the keyboard to type he was sorry.

He thought of the feel of Lestrade’s arms as they surrounded him, as he returned the kiss.

_No, I am not in the least sorry._

››TEXT›› 0819: I find myself at a loss, I cannot in good conscience say such to you. – MH

››TEXT›› 0821: Just so we are clear: you’re not sorry. – GL

››TEXT›› 0821: No, Gregory I am not sorry, I kissed you. – MH

››TEXT›› 0821: Good. Because I am not sorry and will not apologize for the most spectacularly honest moment between us in all the years, we’ve known each other. – GL

››TEXT›› 0822: It was a spectacular moment. That is true. – MH

››TEXT›› 0823: I am at court and will have to turn off my mobile. – GL

››TEXT›› 0823: Speaking of which, the ball remains in your court… – GL

Gregory’s court appearance was Thursday morning. Mycroft had typed his response that same Thursday morning.

Thursday came and Thursday went. 

He has seen his brother twice since he was released from the Hospital under Watson’s care on Friday.

It was now Wednesday afternoon.

He had yet to speak to Gregory.

And the text from last Thursday remained unsent.

When he saw Sherlock on Monday, he had remembered Sherlock’s words of not wanting to live a stilted life in fear of Moriarty’s revenge.

_Yet you are doing exactly that, Brother Mine._

Mycroft looked at the blinking cursor…

_Does that make me selfish to want Gregory as badly as I do?_

His thumb hovered over the send icon for a very long time.

_Does that not make me just as much a coward?_

Mycroft eyes looked through the ceiling of the sedan to the skies and deities he does not believe in, John’s words echoed in his mind.

_“The heart wants what the heart wants even when it can’t or shouldn’t have it…”_

Mycroft pressed _Send_.

››TEXT›› 10:45: I would like to be worthy of another spectacular moment with you Gregory. Someday in the future, if you are not currently amenable to such, let me change your mind. Someday soon, if you are. – MH


	14. Off Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are moving in two directions in Mycroft's life. One good, perhaps to become better. But can he choose the good path knowing the bad may be closing in on him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“We have a problem.” Lady Elizabeth Smallwood announced to the room.

She had been relatively quiet while the others gave their reports, yet she seemed coiled for action.

_Whatever she’s been sitting on, the anticipation is getting to her. She has yet to look at me except in passing. What is it now?_

“Meaning I have a problem?” Mycroft looked over to the woman.

“Meaning YOU are the problem…” She corrected.

“Come again…” Mycroft frowned slightly.

_And so, it begins…_

Smallwood took over the screen projector, logged in with her own credentials and pulled up files.

It was files Mycroft immediately recognized as being part of the bad penny that continued to appear known as the Ugly Duckling mission. Only this time it was coming from Love instead of Porlock who looked up in surprised. Banner and Static were also expressed surprise.

_Oh, but that is not the true surprise is it? What else?_

“Honor, Porlock and I have admitted to having used Moriarty’s people from time to time for things that were best not attached to us in any way.” She continued.

“The high majority of which was against my advice before we knew they were his people.” Mycroft pointed out.

“It was your advice to not be involved with him, that is true. Which is what made this all the more interesting…” Love brought up out more files and photos.

News and tabloid headlines from Eastern Union countries emblazoned with Moriarty’s photo.

“Crimes Against The Crown” | “Who Is The Real Criminal?”

Mycroft of course saw the emerging pattern first, “What farce is this?”

“Oh shite…” Static, who had been calmly sipping tea saw the emerging pattern as well and looked to Mycroft in dawning horror.

Love laid data on the desktop that were a lot of coincidences. Too many in fact, spanning over the past few years that told a tale of torture and collusion and hinted but did not outright state possible treason.

All coincidences which hinted at one person: Mycroft Holmes

“That is utterly impossible.” Banner frowned at the screen, “I know for a fact some of that was under Honor.”

“Precisely. Most of this false information is related to the soon-to-be formerly clandestine operations completed under Honor’s tenure.” Static studied the screen. “Some of that is outright fabrication when looked at closely. It may be CAM Media’s foreign subsidiaries making the accusations, but this has Jim Moriarty’s touch all over it. It is all made to look as if not by his direct hand, then under the direct order of Antarctica in protection of his brother.”

“His sole pressure point,” Banner added.

Mycroft’s face stayed neutral as he felt all eyes on him, “You are aware I do have parents. I was not borne upon a clam shell.”

The immediate snorts of amusement had exactly the reaction expected and wanted as those same eyes drifted away.

_You WILL NOT learn of my only other pressure point until I am ready._

“Individually, these are mostly small things, easily dismissed.” Love continued, “However, taken as a whole…”

She let the enormity of it hang as she brought more data appeared onto the screen.

A headline of “Heavy Handed Holmes” had a photo of a beaten Moriarty his face bruised, his left eye swollen shut and in the background almost out of the frame, a shadowy near silhouette of a man bearing a passing resemblance of Mycroft’s frame.

_Surely, Magnusson cannot be serious with that?_

Anthea had emailed the same files to him at one in the morning, minutes after Smallwood had received them. Mycroft had seen them before his colleague had awakened to review them herself.

Mycroft silently stared at the screen, his hands palms together, fingers barely touching his lips and waited to see what would be said.

It was just too juicy for her to come to me in private, she releases it all here.

“My God, Moriarty was never beaten like that. That is some skilled photoshop!” Static exclaimed.

“It’s not Photoshop, it is makeup and prosthetics. None of which can be proven of course,” Banner sighed. “nor can it be disproven.”

“The court of public opinion does not care about proof. It is in the news; that is enough.” Porlock all but grinned in schadenfreudian satisfaction as it came to him at last.

_Luckily, among us here, we know you’re not creative enough to have done any of this._

Antarctica gave the man a lazy smile, one that wiped Porlock’s grin away.

“No entreaties have been offered to counteract it. It will go out, which means the UK will soon be all over it. This has hit or rather will soon hit media in the EU over the next few days.” Mycroft idly gestured at the screen.

_It’s going to be a nightmare. I don’t have time for this with Moriarty poised to…_

Mycroft’s mind simply stopped for a moment as it all came together.

_So that is what he’s doing. It has begun._

“Sir, a video arrived from communications. Detail thought you should see what it looks like when the dam breaks.” Anthea placed a cup of tea on his desk, “There’s no audio, but you won’t need it. I forwarded it to you.”

“Domestic of foreign?” he asked as he woke his computer to open his email.

“ _Very_ domestic.” she said impishly as she sat in a club chair and pulled out her mobile.

He raised a curious brow at her emphasis and that she was pretending to work.

_She wants to see my reaction? Oh, what have you done now, Sherlock?_

Mycroft finds the video and plays it.

Only a montage of captures from various mass surveillance cameras near a crime scene. Most are only close enough that Mycroft easily identifies the cast of characters he’s supposed to see: Sherlock, John, Sally Donovan and Lestrade. The DI seems to be purposely ignoring whatever haranguing Sherlock is giving Donovan as John carefully watches. There is no audio and the cameras are too far away lip reading. Sherlock naturally has his back angled to the closest camera so his face cannot be seen at all. It is by watching John and Sgt. Donovan’s face that he gets the sense of the scene. Sergeant Salome Renee Donovan is a seasoned tough cop with a thick skin. She and Sherlock have butted heads for years now with little for wear. Yes, Sherlock constantly got the better of her, but it was always a truth that however insulting she could handle. Sherlock had gone beyond that threshold.

Whatever his brother had said had become bad when Mycroft sees John try to subtly and then not so subtly call Sherlock’s name to check him to no avail. Sherlock was on a roll and little could stop him now. Mycroft could see when Sherlock’s barbs start to sink into the sergeant as her face starts to shift. She is near the point of tears, but she will not let Sherlock see her cry. The faces of the other officers in ear shot slowly turn toward the two in varying displays of surprise and anger. Mycroft knows the moment Sherlock crossed the line when both Watson and Lestrade bellow at him. Mycroft pauses the video, rewinds on the focus of Gregory and presses play again.

_He is livid! What on earth did you say, Sherlock?_

He cannot cleanly read the words coming from Lestrade but the fury of them are as plain as day in his manner. When Sherlock is ordered to leave the scene the expression on the detective inspector’s face sears. Mycroft paused the video again.

_That is what she wanted me to see. I know it’s wrong, but my god he’s… He’s beautiful!_

“I paused there also. He’s a lovely sight when furious. I never noticed before.” Anthea commented as she continued to type on her mobile.

Mycroft could not deny it. Teeth bared; his finger pointed in Sherlock’s face, Lestrade looked dangerous even from the distance.

_Lestrade was a vengeful shepherd in defense of his flock. I’m sure Sherlock earned the reproach._

“Lestrade ordered Sherlock away from the crime scene. Whatever happened was not justified to Donovan, but very much so to my brother. I do hope Sherlock gave him enough to work with before kicked off. I can see by his face he’s not letting my brother come back.” Mycroft commented noncommittedly as he pressed play again.

The video continued as Watson stepped up to Sherlock’s face.

_Oh, the good doctor is in full Captain Watson mode! I do tend to dismiss how formidable the man can be._

Watson’s own face a mask of suppressed anger at his flatmate, as he told the detective some form of _Shut up(!)_ before the two left the scene. Sherlock’s face is seen clearly as he held the police tape for John and him to duck under. It was one of defiance and confusion.

_Defiance because he felt justified in taking her down, confusion because he still has not learned when enough is enough and not to go past it._

He watched as Lestrade spoke to Donovan briefly who walked off to another part of the scene.

_He’s giving her a moment to compose herself. Good shepherd indeed._

With his hand riding roughly over his scalp, Lestrade froze for a moment when he spotted a camera. His silver hair stood on end as he just as unconsciously finger-brushed it back into place before dismissing it and going back to work and the video ends.

“You have a call with Singapore at 1615, Tunisia at 1645, the CIA director at 1715 and the PM at 1745. There’s movement in South America that may need looking into. Everything previously scheduled for after 1800 has been shifted to tomorrow or after. The latest from the eastern block is being compiled. It should be in your hands before you leave for the day and still nothing on the else on the radar from other the faction.” Anthea reminded him as she stood and headed for the door.

“Thank you, as always.” Mycroft watched the video again as the door closed behind her.

_The timestamp places this at over an hour ago and he has not heard from me. He knows I’m going to find out he yelled seriously at Sherlock. He’s likely worried I’ll cancel in retaliation. Oh, ye of little faith!_

In spite of the clock on his computer, Mycroft pulled out his pocket watch to check the time.

_Just before 4pm, let me put his mind at ease. I must do it now; a promise is a promise._

He texts Lestrade to confirm their dinner plans for later where he cannot talk about Sherlock or work.

He is thoughtful as he closed the video and then pulled up some files for work.

_Still nothing on the radar from other the faction._

Moriarty slipped out of that restaurant several weeks ago and effectively disappeared. Nothing has shown hide nor hair of the man since. Neither he nor Sherlock were foolish enough to think the master criminal just upped and died. His network had not fallen apart, he was still running it, at least by proxy. It was a waiting game of when, not if, he’d reappear and be as ready as they can for it.

_And do I dare to venture toward some form of personal happiness in the interim knowing this?_

The smile that came as the thought of Gregory Lestrade was all the answer he needed.

_I dare._


	15. From the Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six weeks since Moriarty's arrest rand Mycroft is slowly feeling the pressure mount professionally and personally...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631) and [Chapter 11 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59864548) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“What are we going to do about this?” Porlock leaned back in his chair.

_We? What we? You mean I?_

Antarctica continued to scribble in his note pad as though he had not heard him.

“Define _we_.” Love snapped at the man her thought on a similar vein, “You, nor I, nor anyone in this room will do a damned thing. We barely, and I do mean barely, have reached par from those last cascades Moriarty dropped. Whatever invidious game he’s playing is…”

“…Is not going to affect any of _us_ unless _we_ get involved.” Banner interrupted.

“We may not yet know what he’s doing, but we know to whom he’s doing it and it’s not _us_.” Static completed the heretofore unspoken thought between them.

“He’s in prison. We have people inside...” Porlock let the statement hang.

“As does he…” Antarctica spoke his first words in nearly three quarters of an hour as the others went around in circles about the recent reemergence and incarceration of James Moriarty. “There is zero chance he would subject himself to such risks without having ensured a portion of protection from within beforehand. Some of the guards and perhaps the Pentonville governor himself is in pocket. Banner and Static are correct. He won’t come after the four of you if you don’t come after him. It is not germane to his overall plans whether you do or do not, however a self-delusion that he is so engaged in this trial that he would not partake of retaliation should you attack him would be to your personal detriment.”

“Of course, this is personal, he’s coming after you.” Static sighed in understanding.

_Unlike Edwin, at least Francis is not damn near gleeful at the prospect._

“When Moriarty wrote my brother’s name on that glass, that smiley face may as well have been concentric circles on my brother’s head. He thinks I will be so involved with protecting my sibling that I will not keep as weathered an eye on England.” Mycroft put down his pen and closed the notebook, “We all know I am not given to familiar leanings in these things.”

“Please!” Porlock scoffed, “you’d shoot everyone in this room point blank in protection of Sherlock!”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch then looked to Porlock with a smile that was somehow more of a threat than the ice glare that accompanied it, “Quite true.”

“Porlock, stop. Even you would protect that hideous mother-in-law of yours from any of us on principal,” Banner gave the man a measured look, “frankly I tire of this circular discussion going nowhere. We’re safe for now, let’s move on to...”

“Really?” Static sniffed, “Are we safe? Ever? From him or his network? As long as he lives?”

_It is a valid fear for you, I know._

“We are speaking of a man who somehow broke into three of our most secure institutions simultaneously and seemingly single-handedly then patiently _waited_ to be arrested on just a lark. A man who not too long ago caused us to lose two parliament members and crashed our stocks. One who introduced himself to us by having Semtex vests strapped to a random woman, a young man, a child and a blind elderly woman. The blind elderly woman where he then had the vest set off killing her and partially destroying her building solely because she had started to describe his _voice_.” Mycroft calmly reminded them as he stood and headed for the door, “You ask are we safe, you tell me.”

“So we do _nothing_.” The distaste of the thought was evident in Porlock’s voice.

“He did not say do nothing, just that it would be ill advised to put into action what has been suggested thus far.” Love corrected.

Mycroft pocketed the pen and notebook as he looked straight at Porlock, “Tell me Patrick, does little Anne still believe her cat Missy is off on a grand kitty adventure to return anon? Or does she know how the feline’s body was FedExed to you with a picture of you and your niece with Missy on the day the cat disappeared? I believed the note indicated how easily bodies of all sizes can be FedExed to loved ones these days.”

Porlock stood frozen in surprise and rage. He was aware if Mycroft knew that much, then he knew exactly what was written in the note and that it had been written in the cat’s blood. The threat was something no one in the room should have known. 

Before the others could react, Mycroft turned and informed each member of the respective threats that each had tried, but clearly failed, to keep hidden from each other and especially him.

Though he had known within a day of each threat’s occurrence, Banner and Love had each come to him privately, when their threats happened. He knew they understood he had to include them in the call out of Static and Porlock threats, so all were on the same page. 

It was what Mycroft had not said aloud that was the most damning thing of all. It had been suggested to each of his colleagues that finding a way to splatter his brilliant gray matter unto the earth would remove the threats from their respective families and themselves.

Only their experience let them know there were bigger monsters that Mycroft out there. And as much as the threats damn them, they will protect their own monster.

_At least for now…_

Mycroft stood by the door quietly for a moment, with none of them willing to look at him, before he walked out. 

He called Anthea on his way to the carpark. “Is everything set for tonight?”

“Yes, sir. You have DeWayne, Thompson, Weir and Standhope. Are you sure about this?” there was a note of concern with a touch of amusement in her voice.

"No, I'm reasonably sure it will be the most asinine thing I've done," he sighed, "but I'm going to do it anyway."

~~~~~

“Here let me get that for you.”

Gregory ran up and held the door open and calmly waited as the old man shuffled in with his cane.

“You must be the new tenant who moved in downstairs. Welcome to the building. I’m Greg Lestrade.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. I’m Isaac Reynolds.” he kept his face tilted away from Gregory’s direct view though was clearly listening.

“It’s Greg sir, don’t stand much on formality when at home. Forgive me if I’m wrong, are you hearing challenged? Would it be easier for you if I stood on this side for you to hear better?”

“Why yes, I am and thank you. I’m Isaac Reynolds.” He held out a hand.

“That’s good. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reynolds.”

“No, that won’t do. If you’re Greg, then I’m Isaac. That’s very good of you to notice and be so accommodating. Most don’t, I have to ask them, sometimes repeatedly.”

Greg held the door to the lift to the lift. “Oh thank you, again.” He made his way in and pressed the call button for his floor.

“Excuse me.” Gregory reached over and pressed for his floor.

The ride to his floor is quiet until the doors open on his floor.

“Welcome again to the building. See you around, Isaac.” Greg smiled as he took out his mobile and dialed a number as the lift doors opened.

He shuffled off the lift. “Thank you. I do hope so.”

Luckily, the doors to the lift had closed before his mobile vibrated with the incoming call.

_Damn, he knows doesn’t he?”_

Mycroft cleared his throat and answered in his normal voice. “Yes, Gregory?”

“You look amazing in that get up. I have no idea what you’re playing at, but come upstairs once you’re out of that get up. Or come as you are and let me take you down to the real you. Your choice. Though I do wish I could see your face right now.” Gregory’s laughing voice came through the line before he rang out.

*

“This is crazy.” Greg reluctantly stood and slipped into his trousers. Mycroft shoved the fact that he did so commando out of his mind as reluctantly rose and pulled on his pants and trousers.

_I concur._

This was only the third time they have seen each other since Moriarty’s reappearance; the first chance they been together since Gregory was at the townhouse six weeks ago.

Some three hours ago, septuagenarian Isaac Reynolds stepped into Greg’s flat. Less than half an hour later Gregory kept his word and carefully peeled Mycroft out of the disguise, then not so carefully out of his clothes. The past three quarters of an hour Gregory and Mycroft discussed the necessity of such extremes if they wanted to see each other. 

“It’s the only way, Gregory,” Mycroft sighed, as he put on his shirt and jacket, “You do not throw yourself into the line of fire as my brother does, but I will not risk the discovery of you. I know I’m being watched. Our public relationship must not break the professional façade already established. I cannot be seen entering or leaving here. You absolutely cannot be seen at the townhouse. Of the two of us, it is easier for me to leave your bed than to let you out of mine.”

_Not that this is in any way easy._

“Not that _this_ is easy.” Gregory said almost as the same time as Mycroft’s thought.

Gregory watched as he finished dressing, “This arrangement… How long will we have to do this, live like this?”

“I cannot give an exact date. The trial is tomorrow. It all depends on what he does after. But it is Sherlock and my honest opinion that it will not be for long. I imagine a couple of months at most before the difficulties of this arrangement are over.”

“You two are that sure about all of this?”

_As sure as one can be when up against the mind of Moriarty, which is to say, who knows?_

“Yes.” He said aloud instead, “And before you ask if or how you can help, you cannot. You just keep doing your job, that is all you can do.”

Greg nodded slowly. Mycroft knew he did not like it. He did not like it himself.

_It is all that I can do. What choice have I?_

Gregory was an intelligent man. Of the many scenarios Sherlock and he deduced may happen, very few involved Gregory. Of the ones that did Mycroft knew sure Gregory would do his part without being asked.

_That is the kind of man he is and why…_

“You’re going downstairs first or straight home?” Greg interrupted his thoughts.

“The disguise is good enough to muster past the cameras downstairs and head out from there. _Isaac_ will go to work and I will go home.”

Greg tried not to laugh as Mycroft pulled the old man wig on haphazardly.

“Here. I know you’re messing it up on purpose. No one who has at least ten different ways to knot a suit tie can possibly be that bad on putting on a wig.” Gregory reached over and straightened the hair. “That should be more than good enough to get you down and out. And not the office when you get home. If you haven’t figured it out by now, it’ll keep till morning. Get some sleep, ya?”

_But Mycroft… who protects you? Huh? I don’t mean your body. I mean you. Who?_

Mycroft could not help his soft smile as he recalled Gregory’s words.

_You do Gregory. You…_

As though slowly pulled by magnets he Gregory silently stepped to each other and embraced. The kiss was soft, warm until he felt the flinch of Gregory’s body when his hand touched the wig. A dash a cold reality.

“Sorry…” Gregory whispered apologetically,

“I know… I will get some sleep…” Mycroft promised as he pulled away.

He checked his mobile as Greg walked him to the door and unlocked it.

Mycroft could see how hard Gregory gripped the knob to keep from touching him as he opened the door.

“That was a great match, Isaac I know I’m working late the next couple of days. How about I give you a buzz when I come in at the next decent hour and if can catch another again.” Gregory blinked as a neighbor rushed past the opened door. “Oh! Hey Terry!”

“Hey,Greg!Howyadoin’dLove tachat,butI’mknackeredandneedtheloo!” Terry barely stopped to wave as pulled out his keys as he hurried to his flat a couple of doors down.

“It was a good thing we are both properly dressed.” Gregory chuckled as the door slammed behind his neighbor.

“Why? Don’t want to be seen as the young paramour of a much senior man?” Mycroft teased in his Isaac voice.

“You mean do I want to be seen as some geezer’s boy toy?” Greg snickered then lowered his voice, “Only yours, old man. Only yours.”

“Until next time.” Mycroft dropped his mobile in his pocket and shuffled out of the apartment. The two gave each other meaningful looks before Mycroft headed for the steps.

_Shakespeare had it right: parting is such sweet sorry._

Mycroft did exactly what he had told Gregory he would do. One hour and fifteen minutes later the real Isaac Reynolds, who had no clue a near doppelganger down to his identification existed in Gregory’s complex, started his night shift as Mycroft changed vehicles and headed home.

Moriarty’s trial was expected to the day after tomorrow. He and Sherlock have predicted the outcome and planned accordingly. Sherlock needed John out of the way after the trial. He and he brother both knew Jim Moriarty was going to come to Baker Street and gloat especially since his baby brother has never really learnt control of his mouth and was consequentially banned from attending the remainder of the trial after his testimony and arrest for contempt. The two had several plans at the ready depending on the time the it all ended.

All he and Sherlock could do was wait and see what moves the master criminal made and go from there.

Mycroft reached and touched the pillow where his mind’s eye supplied a Gregory in somnolence beside him as he had been that first night, that only night in his bed.

_The sooner we can get Moriarty safely out of our lives, the sooner I can safely have you back in it._


	16. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the face of Moriarty's potential plans, Mycroft and Sherlock fine tune preparations of their own. All the while Mycroft worries about the secret and protection of one other...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 12 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59941378%22) through [Chapter 17 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/60549817) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

“I’ve read this twice, which in and of itself is notable. And it is indeed a rare thing for me to admit to myself, let alone speak the words aloud, but I find myself completely flummoxed by this report Brigadier Devarshi. Enough so that I had to hear this from your own mouth. Do explain this.” Mycroft lifted the top sheet of the file on his desk. “Because I do not understand how either of you faced-off and both lived.”

_He is chagrinned and yet fully expected this interview with me._

Brigadier Keyvan Devarshi, known by most as Dev, and one of Mycroft’s top snipers, winced at the paper Mycroft indicated. Mycroft was accustomed to seeing the brigadier in full uniform at an open range or in the field. This was exactly the second time he has seen the man in civilian clothes. The man seated in front of him could have easily looked in place at a financial office in Mayfair or Canary Wharf.

_The suit does an excellent job of hiding the Walther P99 and the three no four blades on him. Urban warfare requires a much different camouflage to blend in._

“Have you ever had an idol sir?” the brigadier looked embarrassed, to say the words as he scratched his head.

“You are the result of over 3 billion of years of evolutionary success, act like it! Because I know you are NOT about to say to me that you… what is the phrase now...? _fangirled_ …over him?”

The man’s dark eyes flashed in momentary anger at Mycroft’s words.

_Oh, Devarshi looks highly insulted, as well he should be!_

“Call it _honor among thieves_ , military style. Call it professional courtesy. Call it what the fuck you want, _Sir_. There are few of us and we respect our own. Yes, he is the enemy on paper, but that is not how he came to me that afternoon. As I said in my report, the man somehow made it to the roof with not one of ours spotting him nor his counterpart that had eyes on us. He was less than two metres from me before he _chose_ to make his presence known. If nothing else Moran revealed a huge hole in our surveillance sweep which I aim to rectify, because none of that should have happened.”

“Exactly. Not only are you not dead, Devarshi, but your report states the two of you _chatted_.” Mycroft put as much disdain as he could in the word and knew from Devarshi’s slight flinch the effect was felt.

“What else are two trained killers, who know of each other and once worked for the same side but are now at something of a détente professionally, going to do while their own targets, enemies to each other, _chatted_?” Devarshi threw the word back at him with the same disdain, “After Moriarty left and I packed down; I told Moran he had until I reached base before I told about him. And then I invited him to my sister’s wedding.” The sniper then shrugged non-plussed, “I was not his target as long as I did not have to pull the trigger. Had I reason to shoot I would have done so innately knowing I would not have lived to feel the recoil, let alone tell the tale. I kept a lookout for my charge who at no point was in danger from my target. I would have been dead had Moran wanted it so. He gave me the professional courtesy of not killing me. I returned the favor.”

Mycroft could sense the sniper’s internal conflict of the censure of having to explain himself versus the admiration of the man he knows ‘on paper’ he should have at least attempted to shoot.

_It was an impossible situation for Devarshi given the circumstances. He was honest, I cannot fault him in that. I need to extend my house cleaning to the wet teams and surveillance._

“Before I was recruited for wet work for you, I was part of the team during that mission when Moran was rescued. I was brought in when their first sniper was picked off. I’m still not even officially listed as being a part of it, that is how last minute it was. I saw when they carried Moran out of that circle of Dante’s that he was thrown in. He was… pretty bad off.”

Mycroft had seen the photos of Moran’s rescue in his unredacted file. To say what had been done to the then lieutenant colonel was… _pretty bad_ … was an understatement.

_His injuries were worse than what happened with Moriarty. Though not by much._

“I saw what was done to him and remember thinking _thank god we don’t do that here_.” Devarshi looked from Mycroft and took a keen interest at the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II behind Mycroft. Mycroft found his own attention suddenly just as interested in the globes on the console behind Devarshi.

_Devarshi and Moran had quite the chat indeed and he wants me to know he knows it happened. That failure with Moriarty will be my cross to bear._

Mycroft waited. The man looked as though he was going to say more on it, but then changed his mind continued with the subject at hand.

“Maybe he remembered I was there and that’s why I made it off that roof alive, I don’t know, but I doubt it. Let me put it another way, sir. I am very good. No, not just very good, I am _better_ than the majority of snipers out there. I would not be here before you at all were I not. What I also am is honest. There are _damned few_ snipers who match me; even less who surpass me, and former colonel Sebastian Moran is one of the latter. When it comes to being an elite sniper, let’s just say if I am your brother, then Sebastian Moran is you. I know how the report looks sir. There’s a reason Moran is on a hot list and I would be lying if I said I was not a little envious of his skill over mine. Yes, in that moment we were on opposite sides, but we were not each other’s personal target and we are alive because we both understood that difference.”

Mycroft sat back and took in the man’s words and offered an olive branch.

“Understood, Brigadier. I have often said to others, to respect your betters. I do not fault you. I just wanted to better understand your perspective of the situation and repair the glaring lapse in security still being discovered.”

_The lapse in my, Sherlock, and especially Gregory's detail._

He and Devarshi spoke a little more on security matters and a different wet work assignment on the horizon before he ended the meeting. 

He glanced through the report again. He understood Devarshi’s action. Like him, it had been at least a decade and a half since anyone in Ultra clearance did wet work personally. The immediacy of such a situation is not a fresh memory for any of them. The report was filed. Mycroft knew Porlock especially was going to try to take him to task over Devarshi’s action, or rather the lack thereof. That it was Moran on the roof while Moriarty visited his brother did not help.

_Moriarty is free. How long before he makes his moves? Or has he already begun?_

~~~~

“Our fifty scenarios are narrowed to less than twenty.” Mycroft announced as Sherlock entered his office later that afternoon.

“Oh?” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sat, “How did you come to your new figures?”

“Moriarty once told me he wants me to suffer. That there so many other fun things he wanted to do first before he killed Anthea and eventually you. He wants me to suffer your loss before he’s finally bored enough to kill me.” Mycroft then explained about the news that will slowly break over the next few days.

“Politics at your level is… vicious, Brother Mine. Everyone jockeying for more power. Forces inside and out attempting or leveraging blackmail. The mere implication that someone at your level let Moriarty get to the Bank of England’s vault; the crown jewels photo op? Let’s not forget the prison break where the public still does not know a couple of criminals are still at large from that…” Sherlock whistled appreciatively.

“I had Jim Moriarty in custody and then let him go. That already looks bad. Why did I let him go? How did Moriarty get into all those places at the same time?” Mycroft pulled up his files and showed his brother the potential headlines. “After his arrest and during the trial, why did I not have him killed while in jail?”

“Because you were in on it…” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment in thought, “with those about to come out, it is going to hurt you, Mycroft… Badly.”

“I am aware. That is rather the point.” Mycroft sighed softly and then showed Sherlock the headline with the beaten Moriarty. “Regretfully, I do have enemies among my colleagues who relish this opportunity to take me down. These are expertly laid traps...and the fact is some of this is unavoidable. Moriarty wants me so busy trying to save my own political life, that I won’t be as cognizant of what he’s also doing to yours personally. As far as he knows you are my sole pressure point.” 

“ _As far as he knows_ …” Sherlock repeated and raised a dark eyebrow, “Do you have others?”

“Why our parents of course, Sherlock. I regret my behavior, but Moriarty knows my feelings for them now.” He raised a brow in return. What Mycroft would do should something happen to his little brother was best left remained unspoken between the two of them. 

Mycroft kept his face neutral even as his hand tingled in memory for the feel of silver strands between his fingers that also remained unspoken even to his brother.

_Moriarty must never know about Lestrade. NEVER._

“When for a moment Moriarty thought someone had robbed him of the chance to kill Anthea he was enraged. If I die by any means but his, he still comes after you only it will be much worse in his anger.” Mycroft put his head in his hands in a rare show of frustration.

_I did not want it to come down to this. I have lived all but the first seven years of my life in prevention of this. Damn it all to hell!_

“The only way to stop a pressure point from being used is to take it out as an option.” Sherlock’s voice belied the conviction held in his expression.

Mycroft understood then that Sherlock knew. He looked to his baby brother sadly, “Depending on what he does next our less than twenty plans may come down to just thirteen.”

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and released it in a loud sigh as he slowly nodded in agreement.

“It must be me that dies.”


	17. And Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus is go. Sherlock may be faking his death, but it's Mycroft's heart that feels like its about to die...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 21 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/61003315) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

Mycroft Holmes did something rare.

Something so rare that he knew it had been nearly twenty-three years since it last befell him.

Something so exceedingly rare that he did not recognize it for what it was until he saw the evidence of it on his own face in the mirror.

Mycroft David Alexander Holmes woke up _happy_.

Mycroft normally looked in a mirror only long enough to perform whatever function that required him to look at himself. He got what he needed done and turned away from his reflection as quickly as possible.

Not this morning.

This morning he reached out and touched the reflection of the man who smiled back at him.

_“Your true smile, Mycroft, the one where you allow yourself to relax and genuinely feel it, is beautiful to see...”_

Mycroft smiled a little wider at the recalled words, but mostly at the speaker of them.

_Gregory is correct, there is a difference._

It made the loss of the smile all the more painful as it faded at the thought of the very same man. The man whose bed he left at one o’clock in the morning.

“Am I going to wake up with you beside me in the morning ever again?” Gregory had groused as Mycroft dressed.

“You will, Gregory. It will not be like this forever.” Mycroft said softly as he kissed him good night. “I’ll see you for dinner later.”

Mycroft picked up his mobile as it pinged into his thoughts.

››TEXT›› 0509: Green light. – SH

_Shite!_

When he said the words to Gregory, he had meant them. He wondered if those words would still be true after today.

Mycroft looked at the cold expression that now gazed back at him. The one to which he was most accustomed to seeing as his hand dropped from the mirror before he turned away.

_And so it begins…_

~~~~~~ 

Sherlock, in his typical fashion, had given Mycroft little warning once he set things in motion. The bad news is that it put him at a disadvantage as he rushed to get things and people in their proper places. The good news is that it gave Moriarty equally little time to enact any plans on his side in turn. At least that was Mycroft’s hope.

Sherlock had refused to be wired. Devarshi, who had eyes on the roof, was not much of a lip reader, the exact conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty would not be known.

Jeffries, another of Mycroft’s snipers, had partial eyes from another view. Unfortunately, he was also partially-blinded by the sun bouncing from a reflective surface at just the wrong angle that had made keeping eyes on the roof action difficult.

Mycroft and Anthea listened to their snipers who gave their impressions of the situation as the scene unfolded. It did not look good for their side.

Mycroft could do nothing but wait in the small office commandeered as the staging area weeks ago to be at the ready. The guise being he was on his way to the Diogenes office when he got _The Call_ ; it was how he made it to Saint Bartholomew’s so quickly.

Anthea looked to Mycroft as she checked her mobile when it pinged, “Sir, the NSY invitation is confirmed. It is done.”

“Good.” Mycroft’s knee bounced in a rare show of his anxiety; his knuckles pale with the death grip on his mobile where Sherlock will text him with the code that determines their next actions.

_Best case scenario: There is no place like home. Let him text “Oz”._

“Bloody shite! He shot himself!” Dev yelled in their ears. “Moriarty just blew his own fucking brains out!”

“Where’s Sherlock?” “Where is my Brother?”

Anthea and Mycroft yelled at the same time.

“He’s at the ledge looking down.” Dev quickly responded, “He looks, confused…distraught.”

“Insurance on Moriarty?” Dev asked a moment later.

Mycroft shook his head in the negative to Anthea as he answered the sniper, “Moriarty shot his own brains out. The insurance of an extra shot to the heart is unnecessary. No need to desecrate his body further.”

Anthea nodded in understanding, “Dev keep eyes up on Holmes until he’s off the roof.”

“Copy.” Dev confirmed.

_What is Sherlock doing? Finally!_

His mobile buzzed with the text he has been waiting for, but not the news he wanted.

››TEXT›› 1435: LAZARUS. – SH

_Of the thirteen options available to them, naturally it was the absolute worst case of the scenarios that comes to pass. What the hell did Moriarty do or say that even dead he has given Sherlock no choice? He’s going to jump._

››TEXT›› 1437: LAZARUS IS GO. – MH

“Lazarus.” Mycroft gave a single nod to Anthea who then set many wheels in motion.

“He’s talking to Watson who’s just arrived. Fuck! He’s being sighted by a rogue across the way. Are we sending an invite?” Jeffries spoke.

“I thought Watson was at Baker Street.” Anthea looked to Mycroft.

“Watson is a slow thinker, but not a stupid one. He figured out the ruse with Mrs. Hudson and most likely returned to yell at my brother for the subterfuge.” Mycroft explained, “It continues as planned. Jeffries you’re half blinded as is, pack down and go invite the rogue. If the rogue is that stupid to be spotted so easily, he’s not top tier. Send the invite, but he’s expendable.”

“Understood.”

“Ready on my end, Mr. Holmes.” Molly confirmed as she looked out of the window to the street below.

Mycroft, with his own heart in his throat, was of no comfort to Molly who gasped as Sherlock’s body sailed past their window. When Sherlock first stated what he needed her for and how he trusted her, Mycroft did not believe him. He was fully prepared to pull the full Iceman treatment on her to ensure her cooperation. He quickly realized it would not be necessary. Nothing in the woman’s normal demeanor indicated the reserves of fortitude as the surprisingly stoic Dr. Molly Hooper then sprang into action and played her part as she ran to the room next door to assist with the drop of the doppelgänger’s body.

Sherlock had quickly wiped away the blood from his face and hair; and had changed to a clean coat by the time Molly had caught up to them after the retrieval by Molly and removal of the doppelgänger corpse by Mycroft’s people was made. Mycroft knew they had a half hour, perhaps a full hour at best, before the apparent suicide of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was leaked to social media and then confirmed by the press. No words were spoken between the two friends, but Mycroft knew by Molly’s reaction that it was the first time Sherlock held her in a warm embrace before he gently pushed her away. He knew she understood when she looked at Mycroft with an expression that silently begged him to keep Sherlock safe as she squared her shoulders and left.

He was not the one who brought her into this, but Mycroft was grateful to the woman as she went to do what was likely the second hardest thing she has ever had to do in her life.

Mycroft and Sherlock watched in the monitor as she blocked John, who somehow made his way into the building, from entering the morgue proper.

“Molly… Just… Let me look at him one more time… once more… _please_!” John had begged, his voice already raw.

“No, John, I can’t. His brother is on his way. Besides, you don’t want that in your head. I am sorry it is in mine. I… won’t let you in there…”

They had watched as she held the distraught man as they both cried for their very different yet same loss. Sherlock waved a hand at the monitor he could not look at anymore. Mycroft quickly shut it off when Sherlock turned away. It occurred to Mycroft then that his brother had to play dead on the asphalt and not react as his best friend fell apart before his seemingly unseeing eyes.

_This on top of it all was too much. He may actually be near a breaking point._

“Though she is clearly stronger than she looks, I will keep her under watch Brother Mine…” Mycroft promised, “I will bring you back to London, Sherlock. I will bring you back to them…”

The _I will bring you back to HIM…_ remained unspoken, but it was heard loud and clear nonetheless.

Mycroft knew his brother was struck deeply in his heart when for once Sherlock had not even tried to pretend that he did not know what Mycroft insinuated. None of his usual imperiousness was in evidence. This was real. It had to be done. Though Mycroft still felt John should know, Sherlock was insistent otherwise and made Mycroft give his absolute word he would not tell anyone outside of those who already knew. Mycroft knew each person involved would take Sherlock’s secret to their grave.

_I must keep my brother’s counsel as well._

The laundry crate that would hide and shuttle him out of St. Bart’s waited to be climbed into. Mycroft knew Sherlock will not be on this side of the planet when they next speak again. Like with Molly, the two brothers could not find the words. They stood in the empty loading bay and stared at each other.

When Sherlock had held out his hand, it was Mycroft’s intention to simply reach out and shake it.

Instead he pulled his baby brother into his arms and the two simply held each other. It was not in good-bye; they both had enough faith in each other’s capabilities to know their plans could be done. Still, both were realists and knew the dangers involved. It was not going to be easy.

The van that carried his brother away turned one direction, his car turned another.

_Until we meet again, Brother Mine._

A heavy rain fell as their sedan pulled onto the street. A major storm was headed towards London.

“Fitting.” Anthea muttered; her fingers stilled for a moment as she looked out at the dreary sky. Mycroft agreed with the thought as his mobile rang with a tone that meant it was important.

He checked his pocket watch.

_Barely over an hour, plus a quarter, since the jump._

“Holmes,” he answered automatically.

“Oh Mycroft! Please say it is not true! I am so sorry! I knew it was bad, but…”

“Lady Smallwood, please understand if I do not wish to speak with anyone about the death of my brother.” Mycroft cut her off and rang out.

_Liz. She is the only one who could have found out this quickly. If she knows, then it will be confirmed in social media and the news soon enough. This is going to be hell for both of us isn’t it, Brother Mine?_

››TEXT›› 1503: Hey, just checking in. We still on for dinner or are you busy? – GL

_Oh God! Gregory! He does not know yet! Molly should be contacting him soon. Which means he will try to contact me._

He had not told his brother about Gregory. Nothing he had planned with Sherlock had considered any feelings other than John’s and Mycroft was bound to secrecy regarding the now deeply bereaved man.

_I had thought, had hoped I would have a little more time, a little more happiness with the man before it all went south._

He knew he could not see Gregory Lestrade again if he was to keep his brother’s secret and the promise to his lover. He silently bemoaned the cruelties of Fate, Karma and Universe.

_Why let me taste it if such is never to be mine?_

Mycroft gritted his teeth as he thought of Gregory.

_I am not ready for this!_

Mycroft caught his reflection for a moment as he looked out at the rain drenched streets of London. He remembered the question he had pondered of himself as he looked in the mirror that very morning. His normal cold reflection had slowly morphed to a sad reflection in realization of the answer.

Anthea said nothing as she watched Mycroft turn his mobile completely off.

_I’m so sorry_

If asked, he honestly could not have said if the words were for Sherlock…

…for Gregory…

…or for himself.


	18. Torn Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torn between two loves and two conflicting promises, for the first time in a very long time, Mycroft Holmes was at a loss. And that is only the beginning of his troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 21 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/61003315) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

"You have the equipment you need. Anything else?" Mycroft asked the voice much too far away from home.

"I'm good for now. Your contact here was able to supply good leads." The familiar baritone responded, "I may be incommunicado for a bit as I infiltrate. Give me five."

"Understood Scott, take care."

"Don't I always?"

Mycroft could not help the amused snort that slipped out.

"Fine, most days. Laterz Alex." 

Mycroft waited until the line went dead on his brother's end before he ended the call on his side.

_Five days of worry before I can really worry if I have not had contact. Please contact quickly, Brother Mine._

Mycroft sat at his desk; his mind again thrown back to the previous week.

> Devarshi: “John” “Mrs. Hudson” “Lestrade” I think those are Moriarty’s targets to pressure him, sir.
> 
> _Did he say Lestrade? Gregory is a target?_
> 
> Jeffries: “Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims” Confirm. He wants Sherlock to jump.
> 
> _Gregory!_
> 
> To anyone who had looked at him in the moment, Mycroft’s face was frozen impassivity at the snipers’ words. Only Anthea understood the horror that went through his mind. Her leg brushed against his briefly in a leg cross as she typed furiously. He left it to her, she would know what to do. He forced himself to concentrate on the information being relayed by the snipers.
> 
> He could not help it as his mind betrayed him and vision after vision after vision of Gregory Lestrade being shot ran rampart through him.
> 
> He sat there and listened but honestly barely heard a word until Anthea spoke again, “Sir, the NSY invitation is confirmed. It is done.”
> 
> Mycroft had not realized how tight the vise grip on his wrecked heart until he began to feel the relief of its release even as it continued to silently panic for his brother.

_Caring is a disadvantage._

Mycroft knew he surpassed merely caring long ago.

 _This love_ , and he could say the words in his own head and own them, _this love is devastation._

_And yet I would not have it any other way. I need him. I need him so much!_

He picked up his mobile to dial Gregory when it buzzed in his hand.

_Anthea…_

››TEXT›› 0217: Mycroft, they’ve dropped. – A

_She used my name. She TYPED my name._

He stared at his phone in surprise. He had his finger poised to speed dial her when he realized an image had begun to download.

It was a photo of a foreign press newspaper dated that day which bore the headline “UK Government Untruths” and straplines that implied dirty hidden secrets of the British government about to come to light.

Immediately behind it, images of two other major papers from countries in the Eastern Bloc downloaded with similar blurbs.

_No! No! I can’t deal with this right now!_

He dialed Anthea. “Where is the bastard?”

“Just cleared customs in a country we do not have jurisdiction or extradition. According to sources and going by his secretary’s date book it was something very impromptu.” Anthea answered. “If Magnusson didn’t start the presses himself, he was tipped off it was happening. Either way he knew we’d come after him and he got out of Dodge. I give another thirty max…”

Mycroft phone buzzed in his hand. He did not need to look. It would only be one person.

“They already know. At least _she_ does.”

He looked at his phone and saw he was correct.

_Lady Smallwood. So, it’s begun._

That was two days ago.

~~~~~ 

››TEXT›› 0030: More... – A

This time it was images from four other foreign newspapers with similar headlines. Each had a variation on “Who Is The Man Behind The Shadow?”

Each had the same image: a dark grainy image of a man in shadows so deep it was almost a silhouette.

A silhouette that bore a vague resemblance to Mycroft. To those who knew him well enough they would not be fooled.

_It’s everyone else that will be the problem._

Mycroft had expected it. It did not make it any less impacting.

“Luckily we prepped for Code M and began counter measures. We can’t stop it, but hopefully can mitigate the amount of potential damage. He got my brother, now it is my turn. Execute upgrade: Level X92 and head to Diogenes.”

“Sir I am fine; I can go to HQ and …”

“I know you can. I know you’d enjoy it, but I am not subjecting you to Whitechapel’s games. Let Sir Edwin think what he wants. Go to Diogenes.” Mycroft ordered and rang out.

That was yesterday.

~~~~~ 

››TEXT›› 0447: CAM has dropped it. The morning editions are out. Their website has updated with it. Someone, I suspect Edwin, has shown the PM editions from the Eastern Bloc press. – LAS

Mycroft did not bother to text a reply, he called instead and spoke without preamble before she could, “I have seen them. I am not coming in today.”

“I know what today is, I do and I apologize, Mycroft.” Lady Smallwood sighed. They both knew this would be his response. “But you have to come in. I understand that _She_ knows.”

“If you know what today is, then so does she. Not. Today.” Mycroft said between clenched teeth and rang out.

Mycroft’s eyes drifted to the tabs on his computer desktop where the London Times and websites for several other news sources across Europe were open.

The Times had the usual news, but Magnusson’s main papers carried the new story with the headline “Beaten!” with the strapline “How much is too much?”

The images of a beaten Moriarty next to his impeccable image from the trial were side by side and stared back at Mycroft as though taunting him.

_He knew this is how they would be displayed. What else does he have in store for me?_

That was this morning.

~~~~~ 

Mycroft gave a eulogy that was very much like the man being spoken of: succinct and to the point. He knew he should say more, but not even he can speak of his brother in the past tense. Not like that. His parents had volunteered to attend for appearances sake. Mainly Mummy. She would do anything that would help bring her youngest child home safely, soundly _and above all quickly_. As much as it would help, Mycroft knew he could not take the risk and convinced them to stay home. He knew his parents, specifically his mother, would take one look at the heartache of the bereaved around the gravesite and the truth would fly out of her mouth.

_Especially once she saw John._

Mycroft had wisely kept the service _very small and private for immediate family and closest friends_ only. He gave apologies for the absence of his parents; “too emotionally strained to attend given the circumstances”. In reality Sherlock would have been buried in the family plot behind Musgrave under a head stone bearing his full name. This gleaming black headstone emblazoned with the two names the world knows him by and nothing else was as much a fraud as the death of the man presumed buried beneath it. A man very much alive, operating under an alias in another country, as he begins the first of his missions.

He stood on one side of the grave with a couple of older agents, posed as miscellaneous family, to one side of him. Anthea, as someone who knew Sherlock well, stood on his other side. John Watson, Dr. Hooper and Gregory stood on the opposite side of the grave. Dr. Hooper spoke a few words after Mycroft, then Gregory, then John. Mycroft had only been in contact with the doctor to pass along information about the service. He heard the deep unrelenting sorrow in the broken man’s voice as Watson thanked him for the information before he rang out on Mycroft. That was three days ago.

It has been six days since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Barts. The former army captain pulled all of his military bearing around him like a cloak as he returned to Dr. Hooper’s side. It would have appeared he is bearing up as well as could be expected for those who did not know him. But sans the agents, John Watson was surrounded by people who did know him and each saw how he barely held it together.

_I have never seen him look so… lost. Not even in those first days I watched him before you gave him a reason to carry on had he looked as such. And now you’ve taken that reason away. Oh, Brother Mine, do you honestly have no idea what you have done - are doing to him?_

A quiet sob escaped from Molly. John automatically pulled the woman into his arms and let her cry. She cried the tears neither man beside her would shed as well as her own. Only Mycroft and Anthea understood Molly’s tears were in part for her own grief for the friend she does not know if she’ll ever see again and in part in sympathy for the heartbreak she knew the two friends beside her felt. A heartbreak that she herself was a party to, but she understood what was at stake.

Another hand touched her shoulder and squeezed it in comfort. A hand Mycroft recognized. Mycroft could not help himself; he followed that hand and stole a look at Gregory who caught his eye. Mycroft cursed himself for his weakness and immediately looked away. This was the first time he and Gregory have seen each other face to face since he left Gregory’s bed the morning of Sherlock’s jump.

It was not for lack of trying on Gregory’s part. The emails, voicemails and texts received over the past few days were proof.

Gregory had been to the guard houses on both ends of the street in attempts to gain entry. Were security not under offices at a much higher rank and file than NSY, who surely would have shot him had he tried, Mycroft knew Gregory would have blown his tires and plowed past the gate to get to the townhouse. He had seen the determination on Gregory’s face in the surveillance cameras. Gregory had thought about doing just that – hard. Short of a crime happening within one of the residences, Gregory had no grounds to be there without invitation. Likewise, Gregory could not gain entry at Whitechapel. He would have never made it past the lobby. It was solely the fact that Gregory is not the type of man to create a public scene, especially since they have not gone public with their nascent relationship, that it has not happened – yet.

He knew Gregory was having a tough time of his own. Having had let an ‘amateur detective,’ now believed to be a fraud, have access to private NSY files for cases, has brought each solved case into question. While Sherlock assisted in barely a fifth of the cases Lestrade and other detectives brought to the consulting detective, each would have to be reviewed. There was potential for several to be overturned as it was only Sherlock’s unique genius that solved them. Though several others had also used Sherlock’s services, NSY needed a scapegoat. As the most high-profile officer that honor fell to DI Gregory Lestrade. Gregory was being lambasted in the press and by his superiors. Knowing that he did his job and did it mostly, by the books - did not assuage Gregory’s feelings of guilt in Sherlock’s death.

Like with John, Mycroft had only spoken to Gregory once in the past week when he informed Gregory of the service. He tried to convince Gregory that he did nothing wrong and was not to blame for what he thinks had happened. Still, Mycroft had forced himself to ring out on the detective inspector quickly before Gregory could begin to ask for more than Mycroft could give. He has ignored all other attempts at contact.

_I’m so sorry Gregory._

He watched as the three friends walked away hand in hand. Gregory looked back over his shoulder and gave a half-hearted smile. Mycroft could not bear to see the sorrow and the longing in those eyes. He knew if he gave the slightest signal Gregory would release Molly’s hand and come to his side and take his instead.

It took nearly everything he had to coldly stare ahead. not acknowledging Gregory, before Molly tugged his hand and the three friends walked away.

“Sir?” Anthea prodded him gently, breaking him out of his increasing maudlin thoughts. No one else was left at the gravesite but the two of them; Anthea had already dismissed the faux family.

Mycroft’s phone vibrated with Gregory’s pattern as they walked to the sedan. Every instinct told him that the man was somewhere watching. He purposely did not look at his mobile until he was safely within the confines of the vehicle as it left the cemetery.

~~~~~ 

››TEXT›› 1330: I know you’re hurting. I need you and you need me right now. I know you do. Stop trying to push me away. – GL

“Damn it all to hell.” he whispered to himself. He clenched his gloved hand around the device in memory of Gregory’s warmth when he last held the man and wondered when or if he would feel that warmth again.

“You can’t avoid him forever, sir.” Anthea said softly actually lifting her head from her mobile to do so.

_She’s right, I cannot. He’s a smart man, sooner or later he’s going to figure out the one place he can catch me and what will I do then?_

Torn between two loves and two conflicting promises, for the first time in a very long time, Mycroft Holmes was at a loss.

His phone buzzed again. He was about to turn it off altogether, when he saw the signature.

››TEXT›› 1400: Miss me? – JM

_No. No! NO! He’s DEAD!_

››TEXT›› 1401: If you're getting this I'm likely dead, Mykie, but I would never want you to be bored or anything… So I guess you’ve figured out by now I’ve left you a few games to play. Having fun with the press? And not that you could EVER forget about little ol’ me, but I also left one teensy last present to remember me by. TTYL – JM


	19. And The Truth Shall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment the light went out in Gregory’s eyes at the revelation that he had been so thoroughly lied to was damning.
> 
> “Tell Edgar to please pull over.” Gregory spoke softly, his hand on the door ready to open it.
> 
> “Gregory…”
> 
> “PULL THIS FUCKING CAR OVER!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 21 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/61003315) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

››TEXT›› 09:00: Let’s play... – JM

Each hour on the hour Mycroft received more texts from a dead man.

Each was riddle or a code that teased and tormented Mycroft and his cleverness.

Cleverness that led him to a deposit box that contained a signed Roxie photo.

It was a photo of Roxie in a shimmering black dress, with a fan and killer earrings on stage at The Queens Hidden Lounge. It was a performance he had missed. The photo, clearly before the place burned down was – enticing to say the least. The photographer had captured Roxie in her element. She was owning the crowd and knew it. Her caption was written upon the jutted leg that was exposed between a dangerously high slit, where only a wide fan saucily shielded eyes from what lay beneath.

_“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”_

_Moi?_ was written on the fan itself, its implication scandalous. Jim as himself, but especially as Roxie, had always been a tease.

Mycroft was damned to admit, at least to himself, he partially understood Sherlock’s fascination with the madman. James Moriarty was as clever as Mycroft, perhaps more so in his ruthlessness to win at all costs, even after death. Mycroft felt as though he had juggled flaming eggshells these past few days dealing with Moriarty’s post mortem failsafes.

His team got ahold of Magnusson and convinced the helminth that the living devil named Mycroft Holmes can do far more damage to him than the devil that died on a roof top a few days ago. Now Mycroft had to wait for the ever-flighty goldfish and their short attention spans to latch onto the newest scandals already appearing on the internet and scheduled to break in print the next day. Along with retractions and revisions for the older stories, it also helped that not one, but three different men, who bore a vague resemblance to the shadowy image of Mycroft, were prepared to bring lawsuits against CAM media for illegal use of their likenesses, only one of whom was planted by Mycroft’s people.

All the while keeping the prime minister, Her Majesty and his fellow Ultra members at bay, especially Porlock who was all but chomping at the bit in hope of Mycroft’s potential downfall, until things settled to its normal immediacies.

Not to mention keeping tabs on Sherlock thick in the middle of taking down Moriarty’s California network that would also break Oregon and Nevada.

And none of that mattered as much as what he was doing at that moment.

Like the last photo Roxie had given him after the Queen competition, the current photo had the same effect. Mycroft did not think of Roxie.

He thought of Gregory. He missed Gregory. He needed Gregory.

_What are you doing to yourself Mycroft? Talk to him before it’s too late!_

His phone was in his hand, the number dialed before he could think.

“Mycroft…?” Gregory’s voice was full of surprise and understandable wariness.

_It’s all my fault he sounds like that._

“I know I have no right to call you after ignoring your calls for the past week, but…” Mycroft gripped his mobile tight, “But… I don’t know how to live without you.”

“What do you need…?” Gregory immediately asked, “No, I will not have this conversation over a phone. Where are you?”

“At Whitechapel. On my way to a meeting with…”

“Me. I’ll be downstairs.” Gregory spoke and rang out.

Mycroft looked at his phone. He was on his way to a meeting with the prime minister.

_He’s left me no choice. That’s not true. The choice is always mine to make. Him or nothing._

It really was not a choice. He sped dialed Anthea.

_I WAS on my way to a meeting with the prime minister._

“Anthea please reschedule my meeting. Say what you need, but I have someone much more important to tend to right now.”

Anthea’s sole response before she rang out and rearranged his schedule: “It’s about damned time you came to your senses. Go GET him, sir.”

~~~~~

_God he’s beautiful!_

Mycroft saw Gregory standing in front of NSY from a block away. It was a blustery day and though he wore an ear wrap, the wind played havoc with the silver strands in need of a cut on the forever hatless man. He knew from the hunched shoulders and the way Gregory’s hands fidgeted within his coat pockets that he wanted a cigarette.

Badly.

Mycroft knew the fallout from Sherlock’s presumed death had to have been very bad for Gregory to have started smoking again. He could tell Gregory had a pack on him, but would not give in to the temptation.

Sherlock’s funeral was four days ago. Knowing the press will soon have new meat for fodder, meant the pressure on Gregory would also lessen soon. It was all an internal battle now. 

_An internal battle I am not helping._

Even though Gregory came down and waited for him on the faith that Mycroft would come, the hunched shoulders that relaxed noticeably when he spotted the approaching sedan, gave away the doubt that it might not have happened. Mycroft could not help but feel a shot of guilt, that even that little bit of doubt was there.

_What did you expect, Mycroft, the way you’ve treated him?_

Mycroft signaled Edgar to stay put. He stepped out of the vehicle and held the door. “Gregory.”

“Mycroft.” Gregory relaxed a fraction more as he climbed into the vehicle.

_Ah, he had expected me to resort to using his surname or title again._

Mycroft climbed in and closed the door. Edgar engaged the locks and pulled off smoothly into traffic.

“Oh, by the way the Children’s Fund sends their quarterly regards for my continued contributions.” Gregory leaned back in the seat and crossed his leg, ankle over knee.

Mycroft internally smiled at the ongoing remnant of their less than cordial past.

Lestrade was the first person who had not taken him up on the offer of a cash incentive to spy on his brother. Also, the only person who told Mycroft in explicit and quite imaginative detail what he could do with his offer. To say the two men clashed in the beginning was an understatement.

Before learning to respect each other’s milieus there was a constant power play between them. Lestrade was, and remains, a damned good detective in his own right, and once recognized one of the undercovers in a sting as belonging to Mycroft. Lestrade had the agent arrested and inconveniently ‘misplaced’ the paperwork. In a fit of ire Mycroft retaliated by having his team plant continually questionable sums of money in the then detective sergeant’s bank account. This was not long before a review for his promotion to detective inspector where every aspect of Gregory’s life would have been scrutinized, personally, professionally and financially.

Mycroft had no desire to ruin the cop’s life. He had the ‘banking error’ at the ready to clear the man’s name with abundant proof of Lestrade’s innocence. He only wanted to delay the promotion so the stubborn man would realize a hint of the depth of Mycroft’s power, and expected the man to learn his lesson and not challenge him.

He certainly had not expected the officer to one up him by having every pence of that money anonymously donated to charity, but somehow hinted at the Holmes family largesse. Mycroft could not take the money back without making the Holmes family in general, and himself specifically, look utterly heartless after several donations. By that point he had seen Lestrade with Sherlock and had come to know that Gregory’s concern for his brother was genuine. Especially, when Sherlock had nearly overdosed and despite their animosity, Lestrade had contacted him even before his own people learned of it. He could admit, that until John Watson came along, it was mostly Gregory’s influence that kept his irascible baby brother, if not totally off drugs, at least never likely to overdose again.

_I have never been so happy to be proven so wrong about someone._

Yet even now, as much as he wanted to have so much more with Gregory Lestrade, he was still hesitant.

_I cannot, he does not know me, not really. He will not want me, once he does._

Gregory gave a mock salute to their past. “Christ, we were such bastards to each other back when we didn’t know each other well yet.”

_Yet?_

“Oh, you think you know me well now?” 

“Can anyone truly say know you well when you don’t want them to, Mycroft?” Greg countered, “I know you well enough to say this: think about how you are going to fix that, Mycroft Holmes, because I really would like to know you so much better. And have an _honest_ answer for me.”

Mycroft raised a brow in challenge.

“I said _honest_ answer, Mycroft. I’ve gotten better at knowing when you’re lying to me. I understand that you probably have done things that would make me cringe. I told you before: I get that you will need to omit some things, a lot of things, for my own good, work wise alone. However, when it comes to the important things between you and I, don’t ever _lie_ to me. There’s a difference and you bloody well know it!” Gregory snapped.

The silence was deafening between the two men.

“There is something you need to know. Something I cannot in good conscience keep from you if we’re to have what I hope for… I…” Mycroft began and then stopped.

_I cannot do this._

_I must._

“Mycroft David Alexander Holmes, you’re stalling…” Gregory turned to him surprised, “What the bloody fuck are you on about?”

Mycroft could not help but appreciate how comfortable the DI had become with him. The man he met years ago would not have spoken thusly.

Mycroft loathed how that comfort was about to fade away.

“Mycroft…?” Gregory reached out for his hand as he saw heavens only knew what heartbreaking expression Mycroft knew had to be on his face. “Christ man! What… what is it…?”

“It’s about my brother…” Mycroft withdrew his hand before Gregory could touch him.

“What?” Gregory snorted, trying to lighten the mood, “You’re going to tell me he’s alive?”

“Actually, Gregory, yes. He is…”

“How…?” Gregory shook his head as he tried to understand.

“We had calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once Sherlock was onto the roof. Obviously, we wanted to avoid Sherlock dying if at all possible. The first scenario involved hurling Sherlock into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestling ...” Mycroft began to explain until Gregory groaned loudly.

“You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick at times, Mycroft Holmes.”

“What?” Mycroft blinked. He has been called a lot of things, but that was a new one for him.

“I don’t bloody _care_ right now how you two faked it, Mycroft! Why?”

“Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped.” Mycroft asked bewildered by the question.

Gregory ran a rough hand over his head in exasperation and tossed the ear wrap aside.

Mycroft sat up straighter as he realized what Gregory meant “Oh, you mean _why?_ As in…”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, that’s a little more complicated.” Mycroft sighed.

“I see..” Gregory closed in on himself.

The moment the light went out in Gregory’s eyes at the revelation that he had been so thoroughly lied to was damning.

“Tell Edgar to please pull over.” Gregory spoke softly, his hand on the door ready to open it.

“Gregory…”

“PULL THIS FUCKING CAR OVER!” 

Gregory held up his hand in a way that all but dared Mycroft to speak as he took a steadying breath.

“Tell me everything, Mycroft,” Gregory slowly turned his head and looked at Mycroft; his voice was low, dangerous and would brook nothing but truth.

“ _Everything_.”

So he did.

Everything.

By some unspoken agreement they went to Mycroft’s townhouse. Mycroft had no idea what grim expressions were on his face, when Clemmons opened the door, nor on Gregory’s who followed behind him. Whatever their expressions, Clemmons blinked and said absolutely nothing as they passed her with barely an acknowledgement of her existence and headed for the lift. Mycroft was not surprised when Gregory stepped inside and pressed a call button.

_He knows we would not be disturbed there and remembers he can get to office level, but not the master floor._

More for something to do, than necessity, Mycroft turned on the fireplace after they entered the office and locked the door behind them.

Mycroft watched the myriad thoughts that flickered across Gregory’s face as he spoke of Moriarty’s match of wits with Sherlock on one end and with him on the other. He told of the Moriarty's capture. The torture. The first cascades. He bore the shock of Gregory’s face as he told what his fear and rage made him do to Moriarty in turn. He told of Moriarty's eventual release, disappearance and of that very public return. He told how he and Sherlock deduced the path Moriarty would take to destroy his brother and wreak havoc with Mycroft’s career. Then of the showdown on St. Bart’s roof, realizing Lestrade was a target and who was assigned to him. Then the horrific moment he received the text of “ _Lazarus is go”_ knowing Sherlock had to jump. He told how he had gone literally sick with relief in the mad dash to get Sherlock out of there after John had seen him seemingly dead on the pavement. He told how Sherlock made him promise to not tell anyone and how he had avoided Gregory because it sickened him to lie to his lover even by omission. He spoke some on how Sherlock has gone to dismantle the master criminal’s network and some of the new cascades that were happening in the wake of Jim Moriarty’s death confirming their earlier conversation about the foreign newspapers. Lastly, he showed Gregory the shredded remains of Roxie’s picture and what it represented.

Mycroft’s voice was hoarse when he was done. He reached for a bottle of water in the mini-fridge and offered one to Gregory who declined. Mycroft drank deeply and willed himself to not speak as a silent Gregory walked over to the window seat, sat and looked out at the garden.

It was a long agonizing while before Gregory spoke again.

“That is why you kept saying to me in conversations to _do my job_. You KNEW he was going to ruin Sherlock’s public image. You KNEW he was going to set him up to look like a fraud. You needed me to play my part. You needed me to arrest him.”

Gregory’s voice was low, but tight at the realization.

“Yes.” Mycroft felt the knife twist in Lestrade as he damned himself with further truth, “We were sure Moriarty wanted all avenues to my brother be closed personally and professionally. “I could not ask you, it had to be organic. Sherlock and I tried to keep you out of it, but…”

“But Moriarty knew I was Sherlock’s biggest supporter at the Met. He had to ruin Sherlock in my eyes as well,” Gregory finished.

“Yes.”

“He tried, but he failed. Like John, I never stopped believing in your brother.”

“I know.” Mycroft whispered softly, gratefully. 

Gregory sat at the window, his hands in his trouser pockets.

_He looks at the floor unable to look at me…_

“And how did Walters fit into this?”

“We suspected Sergeant Walters was on Moriarty’s payroll, but not at what capacity until he was picked up. He was low level, his initial job was to keep the flame of Donovan’s animosity for my brother alive and to spread it. He did it well, too well. Donovan in turn worked on a reluctant Anderson and together they backed you into a corner professionally. By the letter of the law, you had to take their concerns to your superiors, who of course ordered you to arrest my brother, or look complicit; which we all know you were not. Your career is taking a bit of a hit – guilt by association with Sherlock, but you are not the only one at the Yard who still believes in my brother. A few of your superiors do also, if not as publicly as you. Once the next big scandal hits the public, you will be forgotten about and will be able to rebuild.”

Gregory took off his coat and began to pace. Mycroft sat by his desk and waited; he knew what Gregory would ask next.

“You said Walters _initial_ capacity?”

_There you go._

“While my brother becoming a fugitive was a part of the plan, neither he nor I could predict Watson’s chinning of the chief superintendent, or their being handcuffed together. Still, John was a known player in Moriarty’s game with Sherlock. He knew how important John was to my brother, he tried to discredit Sherlock in John’s eyes, but he had to know that was not going to work. As for Mrs. Hudson, anyone who ever saw my brother and Martha Hudson together knew of his maternal like love for the woman, there was no surprise with her being a target. However, Sherlock and I both thought he was going to use our parents against him and had prepared for that. It was not until our snipers said that Sherlock spoke your name to Moriarty that I knew he had sights on you instead. Sherlock later confirmed he had said it, your name, on a hunch. But Moriarty had agreed far too quickly for it to have been merely a ruse. You, John and Mrs. Hudson were the failsafes to ensure my brother jumped from that damned roof.”

Gregory was silent for a moment as he mulled over Mycroft’s words.

“But I was in the office that day. It would have had to be a fellow cop. One with constant contact. I never would have suspected one of my own like that.” Gregory walked over to a chair by the fireplace and all but fell into it. “How? He couldn’t shoot me; he wasn’t licensed to carry. Besides, even if he had an illegal firearm, he’d’ve never made it off the floor alive.” Greg glanced then in Mycroft’s direction, but not actually at him, “Or not have lived for long after…”

Mycroft took grim satisfaction in knowing Greg accepted that fact. And from Greg’s own grim expression, took some measure of satisfaction of his own from it.

“Anthea scrambled once we knew you were a target.” Mycroft explained, “She immediately contacted your detail who scanned the floor, deduced it was Walters by his behavior and detained him until we had him picked up.” Mycroft paused when Gregory’s head fell into his hands. He knew Gregory did not completely understand the depth of it yet and continued. “Walters had two syringes on him. One a paralytic, the other a slow acting poison. He was only supposed to kill you if he got the call telling him to do so, otherwise he was to stand down. Had he received the go ahead; he would have asked to speak with you privately. Everyone at the Met knows you close your blinds when having one-on-ones like that for privacy. He would have somehow injected you with the paralytic, set you in front of your computer, then given you the poison. Even with the blinds re-opened you would have appeared to be concentrated on work. Unless someone tried to get your attention and noticed your condition, you would have been able to see and hear everything around you…yet be completely unable to call for help until it wore off...” 

“Jesus Christ!” Gregory looked at him at last, the horror of it plain on his face.

Mycroft forced himself to continue, “If you were still alive enough to call out by the time the paralytic started to wear off, the poison would have already taken hold too much to help you. Your murderer would have been long gone and I’d be on the warpath avenging you...”

Gregory took several breaths before he spoke.

“Where is Walters now?”

“Gregory, I will advise you to not ask questions of me to which you do not really want to know the answers.”

Gregory startled at Mycroft’s words.

The was a long silence as both men took in the cold directness of that advice.

Gregory opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. Mycroft had not noticed.

_Gregory is alive and safe. I… I.. had not given thought to how close I came to… to… Oh God!_

The enormity of how very close he came to live his ultimate nightmare hit Mycroft.

Hard.

Mycroft had not noticed Gregory’s approach. Nor that Gregory knelt in front of him. He had not realized how quickly and deeply he had downward spiraled at the thought of having nearly lost Gregory until he felt nails that dug into his flesh in a painful grasp of his wrists that pulled him to his feet and back into the moment. He gasped for the breath that could not seem to fill his lungs.

“Mycroft!” Gregory took one of Mycroft’s hand in his. He placed it on his own chest and took a deep breath. “C’mon… Breathe… Breathe…”

Mycroft found a deep breath, and then another, and then another. Gregory let go once he was sure the panic was over. Mycroft clenched his fist over his heart already missing the warmth of Gregory’s touch there.

_He’s understandably still upset with me. I cannot blame him._

“Mycroft, the concentric circles that follow you have always included me because of Sherlock. It did not stop me from dealing with your brother or stop me wanting to be with you. Jim Moriarty proved that despite your best attempts to avoid it, as long as I know either of you I will be a target. Yet Moriarty is the one dead now. Sherlock is not, I am not, and you are not. My career is taking a hit because of this, but as you indicated, it’s nothing I can’t survive. You do not get to decide for me how I face and live with those targets, Mycroft! I have chosen this life knowing the risks. How have you not realized it’s what I’ve already done for years?”

Mycroft HAD known this on a superficial level, even before he opened his heart and let Gregory in. Still, the reality of living with it day-to-day was more heart wrenching than he had ever imagined. Yet he knows beyond all reason he cannot live without this man in his life.

“One thing will definitely stand true, Gregory and you know this: I will take the bullet for you both, because to live without either of you would be a living hell that not even someone purportedly as heartless as myself can endure. I need you because I so desperately love you, Gregory. The loss of my brother would break my heart. But the loss of you? I told you before I am ruined because of you - that loss would break me, destroy me. I love you. I cannot bear to think of… I _never_ want to find out how such a life could be.”

Gregory’s head shook as his fists clutched at his sides, the pain, the conflict evident.

_Yet here is this beautiful, strong, stubborn man reminding me of what he has already done for years and continues to do for Sherlock! For me!_

“I have broken something have I not?” Mycroft asked when Gregory had not spoken in a while.

“I honestly don’t know….” Gregory admitted quietly as he walked back to the window seat, “Perhaps…”

“I… see.” Mycroft bit his lip.

“You lied to me Mycroft. This affects us. This was important. Very important. And you lied.”

Mycroft could hear the heartbreak, the disappointment in Gregory’s voice, and knew he was the cause of it. He recalled the conversation with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson then, John’s comment to himself that followed and Gregory’s own words.

_“He hid things from me, but he never lied to me when it was important.”_

_“The heart wants what the heart wants…”_

_“Just don’t lie to me when it comes to you and me, Mycroft, okay? Don’t lie to me about the important things for us._

Gregory was correct; he had lied by omission. He and Sherlock had deduced Lestrade would be used as the instrument to bring Sherlock down at NSY. Yet he had not told Greg. 

_It involved us and it was important._

Mycroft kept a respectful distance as he moved to the balcony door and looked out.

That he stood there in a line of sight, in broad daylight nonetheless, as his three-piece suited self; was a testament to how safe he felt from attack from Moriarty, or rather his people. It was also a heartbreaking testament to what it took to get there. Knowing his brother was out there in the line of physical fire while he sat behind his desk fighting his own fires had become so much to bear. His only solace being the hope of Gregory when it was over.

_And what of Sherlock's solace? And by God what we are doing to Watson! What I have forced Gregory to do in turn. Is it worth it?_

As if reading his mind then, Gregory spoke. “I take it John Watson must be kept in the dark then?”

Mycroft knew by the way Gregory said it that it was not a question, but he answered anyway, “Unfortunately, yes. I cannot break another vow. I know this now makes you complicit in Watson’s grief, but before you leave here, I must beg of you to honor my vows to my brother as well. I suppose you may wish to speak with Dr. Hooper. I think she would be grateful to have an understanding confidant. Knowing the truth that he lives does not mitigate her own sense of grief for the loss of a good friend while he is out there risking his life.”

Mycroft sensed more than saw as Gregory gave a solemn nod.

“Thank you, Gregory.”

“ _Did_ Sherlock know about us?” Gregory asked.

_I appreciate the use of the past tense; I know it’s for my benefit as well as your own._

“He knows I have feelings for you. He did not know we… got together. It seemed cruel to bring this to him when I knew he and John were likely to be separated for who know how long. I have watched how my brother and Watson danced around each other. One is too caught up in societal heteronormative convention, the other is too obstinate to listen to his heart. Both are too afraid to tell the other how he feels. I did not want that to be us, yet I seem to find other ways to make things more difficult than need be. But to answer the question you haven’t asked: No. He would have never asked such of me if he knew we had gotten as far as we have.”

“Yet you’ve told me anyway…”

“My brother will be upset with me when he finds out. I have to believe he will eventually understand and forgive, but if not, I can live with that. These two weeks alone have proven to me that I do not want to live without you. But I realize that I have broken your trust in me, in us, into pieces. And as much as it hurts, I cannot make you stay where you don’t want to be…”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do, Mycroft?”

“Somehow find it in you to still love me as I so enormously love you?”

Gregory ran a rough hand over his head and looked out at the garden without response.

Mycroft’s heart slowly shattered in the loud silence.

 _After my last relationship, I had resigned myself to a life of being by myself outside of my family. I gave up imagining the life I thought I'd live as a child. Gave up believing that I’d have a love, a family of my own. Universe has proven, the man that I am, that the life I'm living... I cannot have that kind of love. I have worked so hard to help shape this world into someplace safer for my brother and for Gregory. Someplace where I can live the life I'd like; compared to this life I'm living. And I failed!_ _I have failed my brother and I have lost Gregory._

Mycroft's inner voice was harsh in self-recrimination as he stood at the balcony door.

_I am so unworthy of his love. And so grateful for having had it, even for its brief moment._

Gregory silently picked up his coat and headed for the office door.

_No!_

“Gregory please!” Mycroft’s voice was so small, so broken, as he begged. “ _Please!”_

Too afraid to look, to hope, Mycroft heard as Gregory stopped at the office door.

With only the fire and their breaths to break the silence, the sound of the door as it unlocked and opened loomed large in the office.

_“My God Gregory! PLEASE!”_

Unable to move, Mycroft silent tears flooded his vision in the relentless silence that followed after the door closed.

_Oh, Gregory!_

“I know you don’t believe, Mycroft, but our future is in hands larger than ours.”

Mycroft looked to the man he so desperately loved and burst into grateful tears at the warmth of a hand that slowly enveloped his.

“Not going to lie; this is all kinds of fucked, Mycroft.” Gregory squeezed the hand he held.

“You’re _mine,_ you mad bastard! Did I not tell you I am just as ruined? _Mon Coeur…_ we fought too hard to get here. We can get through this. We have to.”

_He called me his heart!_

Too choked to speak at the endearment, Mycroft simply nodded in agreement.

“All I know is that I need to be beside you, because fuck all, I love you, Mycroft. Be honest with me and stop blocking the inevitable.”

_He still loves me!_

Mycroft understood Moriarty’s failsafes were a vicious thing, but a temporary one. He just had to keep a tight grip on the political reins and his head above water until it passed.

_Above all, be honest with him and stop blocking the inevitable. I can do this._

“We can do this, Gregory.” Mycroft found his voice, “We WILL do this.”

Mycroft drew in a shaky, desperate, tearful breath at the solid body that leaned against his, the strong arms that surrounded him as he nearly collapsed with relief when Greg’s lips found his at last. 


	20. Angel and Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks since Mycroft last heard from his brother. He's beginning to worry when he is tasked to provide entertainment for a visiting ambassador much to his chagrin. Mycroft is going to recall three times where he did not listen to his initial inclinations and will never know if Fate, Karma and Universe cursed him or blessed him for it – this was the third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Fabricdragon’s Mormor fic: [And That’s Showbiz…Kid. - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112)
> 
> The events in this chapter happen during [Chapter 21 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/61003315) in Fabricdragon's timeline.

››TEXT›› 1757: Appearance @1930. Eli will be most grateful. – QEII

Mycroft inwardly groaned. He had truly hoped to get out of this one.

_Why me? Harry would have been the better choice for this._

He had nothing against the equerry, but this level of political schmoozing was more Harry’s forte. Still, Mycroft understood, HE had to do it.

››TEXT›› 1758: @1930. I will be most honored. – MH

It was a blatant lie and he knew _she_ knew that it was. Though he got along well enough with Her Majesty that in private he was free to address her informally; every now and then, she pulled her own power plays, and this was one. Her being grateful extended as far as the trite amusement in knowing she has forced him, _him_ of all people to entertain, aka babysit, the foreign ambassador who had already proven himself uncouth. Harry the equerry, and yes even Harry the prince, offered to go in his stead, but _she_ was emphatic that Mycroft be the one.

››TEXT›› 1759: As well you should be. – QEII

The Prime Minister had made it abundantly clear that the ambassador, was important to a future endeavor, which Mycroft had already predicted he would be. Her Majesty, who usually stayed out of such details, had indicated she wanted Mycroft to handle this. Mycroft could have easily bulldozed past the prime minister’s request, but not even he could deny the Queen who asked for him personally. An hour in the man’s presence and he understood why his touch was requested. Yes, it was a trite punishment, but it was not without purpose.

“Mr. Holmes, I am informed you have a way of knowing things. What is it do you think you know?”

Mycroft gave the ambassador an enigmatic smile as answer. He knew the ambassador wanted to be entertained in a manner he would not be so free to enjoy in his homeland. They could not risk an incident with him should he be spotted anywhere unseemly. Mycroft would be the one of the few people the Queen trusted to keep the ambassador thus entertained. That it also served as a reminder of who _she_ is and for even Mycroft to watch his tongue – all the better. The prime minister fully expected Mycroft to glean whatever secrets he could from the man that would help their interests.

There were fifty other minions that could have handled the man, but Mycroft knew this was his punishment.

_I really should not have snarked about the blasted corgis getting their fur on my suit - again._

The ambassador, though highly impressed that Mycroft pronounced his full name correctly insisted that he be addressed informally. “I am your guide, for the evening. You will be entertained, Eli. The less spoken of how the better.”

Mycroft looked at the familiar street of their destination.

_Mycroft Holmes do not go there. Not like this. There are other comparable venues that would suffice._

In the future, Mycroft is going to recall three times where he did not listen to his initial inclinations and will never know if Fate, Karma and Universe cursed him or blessed him for it – this was the third:

_No. This venue really is the best place for this, go._

Tonight, would be the first time he would be here since the rebuild and the first ever as himself.

Eli raised a brow when the sedan pulled up to the barely discernable letters of The Queen’s Hidden Lounge on the familiar dilapidated looking door but followed him in anyway.

_They kept the door!_

Though much improved in its décor, the lounge still maintained its underground dive aura.

The ambassador was clearly delighted at the sight before him. Mycroft’s face was stoic as he barely glanced at the plethora of men and women, in various stages of dress, undress, and drag.

Memories of then haunted Mycroft’s mind now. The Roxie he knew was gone. Jim Moriarty’s top people went deep underground, most not heard from again. One or two established smaller networks not worth sending Sherlock to dismantle. Sebastian Moran had disappeared almost as though he never existed. Yes, Roxie sparked his libido, he would not deny that, but Mycroft knew it was seeing Moran’s not quite secret love for Roxie that awakened the sparks within him to realizing he loved Gregory. Mycroft cannot imagine a life without Greg in it now and sometimes wondered how the former elite sniper fared with his Roxie.

Mycroft sat in the dark booth smugly observing Eli who turned out to be unexpectedly entertaining for all the wrong reasons. Mycroft nursed the vileness the venue deemed as _their best_ Scotch. Their server, cheekily dressed as Holly Golightly, a la “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, had noted Mycroft’s face as he sipped the drink but said nothing as she walked away.

“Sir, I believe you would be better served with this…” Their server returned a few minutes later and did a perfect squat as she placed a new drink in front of him. Mycroft sniffed the contents and smiled recognizing it.

_Now THIS is the good stuff._

“I do apologize for _this_.” she took the offensive drink glass away at his approval of the replacement. “Not all who have the discriminating taste to dress themselves in Gieves & Hawkes bespoke translate that to having equally discriminating taste in their liquor. Why waste it on the unworthy?”

Mycroft visually scanned their server. The Adam’s apple on the swan neck was a little too pronounced and the shadow was long past 5pm and somewhat ruined the heavy make-up to conceal it, but the fragile bearing of the character was there in the mannerisms.

None of it disguised the Windsor with a touch of America’s Cambridge accent, among other things, that gave _her_ away.

_Ah, the younger son, considered the black sheep of the family. Graduated from Harvard Law and passed the bar there and here in London. Intelligent enough to know that first drink was beneath me, bold enough to act on it. Doesn’t really need the money, this is for fun and to annoy the family. Can’t say that I lay blame. It is a shame his male progenitor is such an enormous dunce._

“Very good Ms. Golightly. Hepburn and the Hasty Pudding crowd would be both honored and appropriately scandalized by your interpretation.” Mycroft placed several notes on the tray and flicked a glance to his booth mate. “No one else gets the bottle.”

“Yes, sir.” There was only the slightest narrowing of her eyes in response to his comments as she served the ambassador his glass of the better drink, looked at the bills on the tray, and then inclined her head demurely at both. She knowingly angled her body to Mycroft without being rude to Eli who all but visually drooled at Holly’s near backless gown giving him quite the view, “ _Thank you_.”

_Very observant and knows how to play. I’ll have Anthea look into if he’s worth recruiting._

“God, I love the rare nights when Roxie is here. That girl is some kind of magic. She doesn’t show up often and is hell on heels to the other girls when she’s here, but I seem to get the good customers whenever she performs.”

Mycroft overheard Holly whisper to another server as she walked away.

_She’s dead Mycroft. It’s a common stage name. You know it won’t be her. No one could be her._

They had been at the club less than an hour. The ambassador had consumed several drinks of course and had many things to say to Mycroft including to thank him profusely for the night’s entertainment.

“You serve only us tonight. I’m sure that can be arranged.” Eli added more bills to the tray with the next serving of drinks. Holly raised a brow to Mycroft, understanding who was in charge.

“At this point Holly, I am the three monkeys rolled into one.” He shrugged knowingly and left the decision in the server’s elbow length gloved hands.

“I’m sure it can,” Holly smiled at Eli sweetly. “Give a girl a moment to make it happen.”

It took everything Mycroft had not to laugh, when Holly barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes as she turned walked away. She added a little extra swing in her hips and Eli released a low whistle.

_At least he keeps his tongue in his mouth and his hands mostly on the table at the view._

The lounge had always had a very strict rule in place that patrons do not touch the employees, however the opposite was not necessarily the case. Holly quickly sussed out which man in their booth was the one to play with and which one was _not_. She paid extra attention to the ambassador, keeping the flirt a smooth blend of salacious yet classy that delighted Eli to no end. When Holly laughed and accidentally slipped into natural voice, Eli asked her to keep speaking naturally, he liked it better. Holly had an excellent grasp of the situation and the two were getting along shockingly well. Mycroft left them to their conversation and started looking about the club.

He spied a patron with the Daily Mail on the table. An article regarding his brother had been inside that day’s edition.

It had been nearly five months since he last heard or read something in the media regarding the death of his fallen younger brother nearly two years ago. Knowing Sherlock was alive out there in the world took some of the sting away. Though they made contact regularly while Sherlock went about on his self-imposed missions, Mycroft had not realized how much he missed hearing that smug baritone until he realized he has not heard it. Mycroft was growing concerned that he had not heard from his brother in nearly two weeks. That was the longest they have gone without contact.

It was one thing to not hear from when Sherlock was here in London, or on a short mission. Those were temporary. This was very different. It was excruciating knowing each time he heard Sherlock’s voice that it could be the last time. He was again infuriated with himself to have let Moriarty’s games with his brother go so far out of hand. He remembered the immense relief in hearing of the death of James Moriarty. He would have liked to have lain eyes on Moriarty’s body personally, but he was engaged in secreting the presumed dead body of his brother out of London as it all went down.

_At least I can take comfort in knowing the bastard is dead._

“Lord have mercy! I hear Roxie’s being an extra diva again.”

_And there is that magic name, again. I wonder what unworthy soul has taken up the mantle._

While Mycroft learned quite a few things of use from Eli, as the otherwise quite boring evening wore on, it was the curiosity of seeing this new Roxie, just to prove to himself the unworthiness, that kept him there.

“When ISN’T she a diva?”

“She can be a diva without being such a bitch.”

Mycroft raised a glass as the ambassador and most of the audience guffawed at the latest parody on stage. What qualified as entertainment was subjective of course. The onstage talent was mixed, not bad but nothing spectacular.

_No one compared to Roxie, I WILL give the man that much._

“Roxie brings in the pounds like no body’s business when she’s here. Do you? No, you do not. Our tips go up when she’s up. She can afford to be a diva and a bitch. Your uglier than Noxzema from _To Wong Foo_ sorry looking arse cannot. Don’t hate.”

Peripheral movement caused Mycroft to look as Holly slid out of the booth to find Eli slightly slouched in his seat, gently snoozing against the back rest. She gave him a soft smile and then blushed when she realized Mycroft was watching.

“He’s done, but I kind of like him, you know? When he visits again, it would be nice if he could…” Holly looks at the man, then shook her head dismissing the thought. “He can’t I know, never mind…”

Mycroft is surprised by the genuine feeling sensed in the young man. “He’s here for another couple of days. If he asks for you, Holly, would you like him to return?”

“Where he’s from he can’t have me can he?” in a sad tinged voice Holly gestured toward her outfit.

Mycroft shook his head in a way he knew Holly understood how much of a negative that was.

“I take it you know who I am from your comment about Hasty Pudding?”

“I do.” Mycroft spoke the full name as verification. The young man gave a short nod of acceptance as he caressed the sleeping man’s face once more.

“Just my bad luck. A girl… and a boy, can dream right…?” He sighed and looked to Mycroft once more before he started to walk away, “Tell him, but _only_ if he asks first. Enjoy our newest girl, Roxie, she’s up next…”

The music from one song abruptly ended and instrumental of another began as the lights dimmed. From the reactions of what he deduced were the regulars around the club, he knew his curiosity about the new bearer of the name was about to be satisfied.

A spotlight focused on a silver stiletto clad foot and travelled up a light grey silk pyjamas clad leg until it fully highlighted the person sitting slouched on a wood chair, head back, arm thrown across the face in an exaggerated show of tiredness.

“I've been a bad, bad girl  
I've been careless with a delicate man…”

The arm slowly moved, and a hand slid down her face as she sat slowly up as though world weary. Yet there was something sinister and sensual in the move that was as mocking as the lyrics being lip synced.

“…When a girl will break a boy  
Just because she can…”

_Excellent lookalike. Someone remembered the old Roxie and is channeling her style._

Fully sat in the chair, if Mycroft did not already know what gender was under the pyjamas he’d be hard pressed to be convinced of it otherwise looking at her. The long brown hair in its twin loose braids laid over her shoulders where the ends brushed the breast of the matching pyjamas top. 

“…I've done wrong and I wanna suffer for my sins…”

She slowly leans forward in the chair as she just as slowly spreads her legs wide. Her hands skim the silk clad thighs and pass the knees. The upper buttons on the pyjamas were open just enough to allow a glimpse of the illusion of breasts adorned in a lilac brassiere underneath.

“…Heaven help me for the way I am  
Save me from these evil deeds before I get them done…”

Still in perfect lip sync she kept her face up and forward even as her hips seemed to bear down on the chair in stages in moves that caused several hands among patrons to move towards laps.

_Damn she is good!_

It amused Mycroft with an odd sense of nostalgia to see how several of the patrons shifted in their own seats as they subconsciously leaned toward her to see more, no matter how she moved. All of it equally slow and enticing until she abruptly snaps her wrists to her akimbo spread ankles as though wrists and ankles were suddenly shackled to the chair legs in a move that was jarring in contrast to slow actions of before.

 _Now_ there’s _someone experienced in that position._

He barely hid his smirk at the thought before he caught himself remembering when he had last seen someone in that exact position two nights ago. He gripped the glass he held with both hands to keep himself from slipping a hand under the table at his own reaction in memory.

_Oh God Yes! Gregory looked so good like that!_

Still being where he was, he remembered the time before that was Jim Moriarty tormenting him as Roxie.

Mycroft grimaced and wrenched the memory of those knowing dark moody eyes of the master criminal looking up at him with a wicked grin back where it belonged in the dungeon of shameful things in his mind palace. He forced himself to pay attention to the show.

This Roxie stood, pulled the seat from the chair and tossed it behind her. With the chair seat gone her head was seen as she lifted the chair and placed its rear legs on her shoulders as she held the back of the chair in her spread fingers. Even as she lip-synced, she moved her head and slid the legs of the chair on her shoulders in ways that were never lewd yet, every person in the club, regardless of orientation, understood.

_Somehow makes the simulation of oral sex look classy, that is talent._

“She’s…she’s… _beautiful_ …no?”

Mycroft could do nothing but nod in agreement at the words overheard from a table over as he himself leaned back into the deeper recesses of the both, his mind superimposing the memory of his blond Roxie over this new brunette on the stage.

“…Before it ends, just tell me where to begin…”

She stepped from the stage and put the club’s _you can look, but only_ **I** _can touch_ policy to good use. She taunted a couple of the patrons and one of the servers letting her pyjamas bottom slink just low enough to give hint to the matching lilac tanga pants beneath. Mycroft was awe-struck with the tuck job; the illusion held impressively. 

Her pyjamas clad back was to Mycroft’s booth as she taunted a patron with the unmistakable motions of a brassier being removed underneath. In moves so subtle, even Mycroft had barely noticed that her braids were loosed, Roxie held the pyjamas top closed with one hand, her now flowing hair covering everything just when as the delicate lilac confection sprang free from a sleeve and dangled from her fingers.

Then the unthinkable happened.

Eli snored.

And by the way Roxie, who had been ignoring the booth until then, suddenly jolted, Mycroft knew she had heard it.

It was one just loud breath of air before the sleeping man settled again, but it was heard. He was trapped in the booth as Roxie’s head whipped around to the sound.

Mycroft surreptitiously activated the camera in his tie pin. He knew his mind would keep the images crystal clear in his eidetic memory, but somethings you just need to be able to provide proof – just in case. The Iceman was who he was for a reason.

_This is either going to be most hilarious or most horrible._

Roxie turned and rushed to the ambassador’s side of the booth. She sat on the table as customers begun to whoop in anticipation.

“…Let me know the way  
Before there's hell to pay…”

The ambassador’s eyes flung open just as Roxy placed the bra on his head. To the Eli’s credit, his eyes quickly darted around, and Mycroft knew the man looked for Holly, not happy at all with who was before him. His searching eyes brought Roxie’s attention to the fact that Eli was not the only one in the booth.

Mycroft had just lifted his glass to take a sip when he caught a piece of Roxie’s most wicked grin as she turned her face towards him, and both froze in utter shock of recognition.

_NO!_

Mycroft Holmes knew that wicked grin. With Roxie that close to him it was her scent, on top of that most wicked grin, that caused Mycroft’s mind to reel with myriad deductions that snapped everything into sudden sharp focus.

He nearly went dizzy in the twin sensations, as time simultaneously sped up yet ground to a vicious stop.

Mycroft’s lips mouthed a name in utter disbelief of the evidence in front of him as he looked past the beautifully made up face to stare directly into the dark pools of Roxie’s eyes and saw a dead man.

_Moriarty..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me, my UK people. The thought of Her Majesty texting just amused me to no end.


End file.
